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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 


DOROTHY  THE  PURITAN 


Ube  Stors  ot  a  Strange 
Delusion 


BY 

AUGUSTA  CAMPBELL  WATSON 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  OLD  HARBOR  TOWN" 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  DUTTON  AND  COMPANY 

31    WEST  TWENTY-THIRD   STREET 
1893 


Copyright, 

E.  P.  BUTTON  &  Co. 
1893. 


Press  of  J.  J   Little  &  Co. 
Astor  Place,  New  York 


ps 

35^5 
W33U 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  DOROTHY i 

II.  THE  WOOING  OF  THE  PURITAN' 24 

III.  SIR  GRENVILLE  LAVVSON 41 

IV.  DOROTHY'S  TEMPTATION 63 

V.  THE  FLIGHT 88 

VI.  THE  WINTER  IN  THE  FOREST 106 

VII.  ELIZABETH  HUBBARD 123 

VIII.  THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN 139 

IX.  THE  WITCHES 154 

X.  THE  RENEWAL  OF  LOVE 172 

XI.  DOROTHY'S  CONTRITION 189 

XII.  THE  MARRIAGE 209 

XIII.  THE  PASSING  FOOTSTEPS 226 

XIV.  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  MINISTERS 242 

XV.  THE  WARNING  IN  THE  MARKET-PLACE 260 

XVI.  THE  SCENE  AT  THE  JUDGE'S  HOUSE 277 

XVII.  IN  PRISON 294 

XVIII.  THE  TRIAL ..  307 

XIX.  ON  GALLOWS  HILL 319 

XX.  "  IN  A  FAR  COUNTRY." 334 

3 


1592767 


DOROTHY  THE  PURITAN. 


CHAPTER    I. 

DOROTHY. 

WlLD,  gloomy  forests  through  whose  interlacing 
boughs  the  sunshine  scarcely  penetrated,  and  whose 
weird  recesses  seldom  echoed  to  the  footsteps  of  the 
white  man,  stretched  for  many  miles  beyond  the 
little  town,  or  rather  hamlet,  of  Salem.  This  forest 
was  admirable,  as  it  displayed  the  grand  proportions 
of  uncultivated  nature.  To  the  homesick,  pining 
emigrants,  however,  seeking  an  asylum  in  an  un 
known  country,  its  mysterious,  unexplored  depths 
were  tremendous  obstacles  to  be  overcome.  These 
early  pioneers,  whose  destiny  it  was  to  settle  here, 
were  indeed  courageous  souls. 

It  was  an  age  of  superstition.  What  more  natural 
than  that  the  Puritans  should  have  peopled  these 
unknown  wilds  with  demons,  witches,  and  strange 


2  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

beings,  whose  baleful  influence,  issuing  from  these 
dark  retreats,  spread  destroying  hands  upon  helpless 
humanity? 

Of  the  Salem  of  those  days  few  vestiges  remain ; 
two  hundred  years  have  obliterated  many  of  the  old 
landmarks.  Our  imagination  must  therefore  come 
to  our  aid  in  picturing  the  little  puritanical  town  and 
its  sober  citizens,  with  their  superstitions  and  their 
straight-laced  doctrines. 

It  is  May-day  in  the  year  1691  ;  a  brilliant  flood 
of  sunshine  rests  upon  the  grassy  village  street  in 
long,  warm,  golden  bars  of  light.  A  soft  breeze, 
laden  with  the  odor  of  salt,  blows  from  the  sea ;  the 
blossoms  upon  the  fruit-trees  are  expanding  into 
pink  masses  of  color,  and  all  the  air  is  filled  with  the 
kindly  warmth  of  spring. 

Before  a  low  wooden  house,  built  on  a  narrow  lane 
that  leads  from  the  principal  thoroughfare,  a  young 
girl  is  swinging  on  a  wooden  gate.  As  she  swings 
back  and  forth  she  sings  in  soft,  cooing  tones,  the 
notes  rising  clear  and  true.  The  gate  creaks  on 
its  hinges  as  she  propels  it  violently  backward  and 
forward,  sending  forth  a  discordant  protest  against 
such  ill-usage. 

The    unpainted,   weather-beaten    house,   standing 


DOROTHY.  3 

back  some  distance  from  the  road,  was  two  stories 
in  height,  having  four  windows  in  both  upper  and 
lower  stories ;  the  door,  however,  instead  of  being 
between  the  windows  on  the  lower  floor,  was  for 
some  unaccountable  reason  at  the  end  of  the  house, 
and  had  above  it  a  small,  roughly  constructed  porch. 

In  the  front  yard  bloomed  in  straggling  disorder 
many  vines  and  shrubs,  which  later  in  the  season 
would  blossom  into  flowering  beans,  southernwood, 
lad's-love  and  fennel,  sweet-brier,  ferns,  and  bay- 
berries.  Back  of  the  house  lay  the  farm,  its  farthest 
fields  terminating  in  a  sandy  beach  on  the  shores  of 
the  harbor. 

On  the  north  side  of  the  house  grew  a  gigantic 
oak,  its  great  branches  resting  upon  the  sloping  roof, 
protecting  the  lowly,  simple  home  from  the  scorching 
suns  and  beating  storms :  no  doubt  this  king  of  the 
forest  had  been  left  standing  when  its  companions 
fell  by  its  side  to  build  the  farmhouse  beneath  it. 
On  the  south  side  a  stately  poplar  reared  its  haughty 
head ;  straight,  unbending,  giving  no  shade,  fit  em 
blem  of  the  austere  character  of  the  inhabitants  of 
the  little  town. 

This  May-day  was  a  glorious  day ;  to  be  alive 
was  happiness ;  the  knowlege  of  having  within  one's 


4  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

self  the  capacity  of  enjoying  God's  great  gifts  made 
life  indeed  a  blessing.  The  girl,  swinging  lazily 
back  and  forth  upon  the  gate,  raised  her  voice  higher, 
and  sent  forth  little  trills  of  delight  that  soared 
upward  till  the  birds  flying  above  her  head  paused 
upon  the  wing,  listened,  and  responded  as  to  a  lov 
ing  mate. 

Suddenly  she  stopped  abruptty  in  her  singing  and 
turned  her  head.  Around  the  corner  of  the  house 
a  woman  came  hurriedly.  She  was  large  and  stout, 
with  a  florid  complexion,  and  her  eyes  were  dark, 
small,  and  bright.  Her  gray  hair  was  drawn  tightly 
back  from  her  forehea  :\.  She  wore  a  sober-colored 
gown  of  coarse  cotton  ;  also  a  cap,  whose  frill  flapped 
about  her  face.  Over  the  gown  she  wore  a  bodice 
of  dull-blue  holland,  and  a  white  neckcloth  was 
pinned  across  her  breast.  Her  sleeves  were  rolled 
up,  and  her  firm,  well-rounded  arms  were  covered 
with  some  cooking  ingredients. 

As  she  approached  the  girl,  she  cried  loudly  and 
angrily,  "  Dorothy  Grey,  thou  lazy,  shiftless  hussy, 
what  doest  thou,  wasting  thy  time  in  song  and  riot  ?  j 
Out  upon  thee!  I'll  give  thee  a  piece  of  my  mind! 
Get  thee  to  the  well  for  the  water."  As  she  spoke 
she  surveyed  the  girl  contemptuously,  resting  her 


DOROTHY.  5 

hands  upon  her  hips  and  throwing  her  head  back 
with  an  impatient  motion. 

"  Aunt  Martha,  I'm  truly  sorry  thou  hadst  to 
wait,  yet  thou  knowest  I  sang  but  a  little  song ;  it 
was  scarce  louder  than  the  robins  sing.  I  caused 
no  riot ;  none  heard  me  save  the  little  bird  who  did 
respond  for  very  doubt  but  what  his  mate  did  call 
him." 

Dorothy  laughed ;  and  when  she  laughed  one 
became  conscious  of  the  wondrous  beauty  of  her  face. 
This  beauty  consisted  partly  in  the  freshness  of 
extreme  youth,  her  presence  affecting  one  as  does 
the  early  dawn  of  a  morning  in  spring,  or  the  pink 
bud  of  an  unopened  rose,  the  dew  still  upon  its 
leaves,  its  sweet  incense  yet  undiffused.  Her  eyes 
were  of  a  translucent  blue,  innocent  in  expression, 
the  pupils  large  and  dark.  Her  hair  was  a  light 
brown,  gold  when  the  sun  touched  it,  bringing  a 
shimmering  luster  to  its  waving  confusion.  Her 
complexion,  bronzed  by  the  sea  air,  was  in  strange 
contrast  to  the  clear  blue  of  her  eyes,  yet  it  but  lent 
an  added  charm  to  the  winsomeness  of  her  face. 
Her  figure,  though  slight  and  girlish,  yet  gave 
evidence  of  strength  and  endurance.  She  stepped 
down  from  the  wooden  gate,  and  stood  irresolutely 


6  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

swinging  her  foot  to  and  fro  upon  the  rough  garden 
path. 

Aunt  Martha  glared  angrily  at  the  smiling  girl, 
and  yet  her  manner  was  partly  indulgent.  "  I  want 
to  know  if  thou  art  going  to  bring  that  pail  of  water 
from  the  well  or  no,"  she  said.  "  Seventeen  years 
old,  and  no  more  use  than  a  yearling  colt!  Thine 
uncle  and  I  berate  thee  from  morning  till  night ;  it 
is  of  no  avail ;  thou  dost  not  care ;  thou  fliest  in  the 
face  of  Providence."  She  paused  an  instant,  then 
continued  more  vehemently,  "  Dost  not  know  thou 
must  give  account  of  all  thine  idle  moments?  How 
long  will  thine  account  be?  Tell  me  that,  Dorothy 
Grey." 

Dorothy  kept  her  eyes  downcast ;  her  face  was 
covered  with  a  cloud  of  discontent,  her  full  red  lips 
were  pouting.  Then  she  glanced  up  shamefacedly, 
yet  impatiently,  at  her  aunt.  "  I  care  naught  about 
the  account;"  she  muttered.  "  I  add  not  up  every 
time  I  swing  on  the  gate  and  sing."  • 

"  I  shall  argue  no  further  with  thee,"  interrupted 
her  aunt.  "  Get  that  water,  and  do  not  bespatter  it ; 
bring  it  to  the  kitchen  door,  and  hasten  thy  lazy 
steps." 

Aunt  Martha  finished  her  remarks  as  she  walked 


DOROTHY.  7 

around  the  side  of  the  house  to  the  rear  door,  her 
voice  rising  higher  and  shriller  as  she  retreated. 

Dorothy  gazed  a  moment  down  the  wide,  strag 
gling  street,  then  went  slowly  over  the  grass-grown 
path  to  the  well,  which  lay  at  some  little  distance 
from  the  house,  under  the  shade  of  lilac  bushes. 
When  she  reached  the  well  she  threw  her  hat  on 
the  grass,  and  commenced  slowly  raising  the  heavy 
sweep,  preparatory  to  dropping  the  pail  into  the 
water.  She  made  a  lovely  picture  as  she  raised  her 
strong  arms  to  propel  the  sweep,  the  exercise  bring 
ing  a  bright  glow  to  her  brown  cheeks,  the  quaint 
costume  of  the  Puritan  maiden  lending  an  added 
grace  to  her  pensive  beauty. 

Suddenly,  before  the  pail  was  half  filled,  she 
dropped  the  pole  and  looked  down  into  the  well. 
She  could  see  herself  reflected  in  its  clear  depths, 
her  image  looking  back  at  her  like  a  picture  out  of 
a  dark  frame.  She  leaned  over  the  mossy  curb, 
and  gazed  long  and  earnestly,  drawing  her  mouth 
down  solemnly,  then  smiling  archly  to  catch  the 
different  expressions.  Once  she  turned  her  pretty 
head  on  one  side,  and  shook  her  finger  reproachfully 
at  the  image  in  the  water.  "Thou  art  an  idler!" 
she  said.  Then  she  placed  a  little  bunch  of  dande- 


8  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

lions  that  grew  in  the  grass  near  by  in  her  hair,  and 
a  spray  of  lilacs  in  her  bodice,  tossing  her  head  as 
she  admired  the  effect.  Then  she  laughed  softly  a 
little  cooing  laugh. 

Aunt  Martha  and  her  errand  were  forgotten. 
This  pleasant  occupation  was  certainly  more  at 
tractive  than  carrying  heavy  pails  of  water  to  the 
kitchen.  Dorothy  became  so  preoccupied  in  the 
admiring  contemplation  of  herself  that  she  did  not 
hear  steps  approaching. 

"  Dorothy,"  cried  a  voice,  "  what  art  thou  doing? 
Art  not  afraid  of  slipping  into  the  well,  child?" 

The  girl  raised  her  head  quickly,  and  her  eyes 
rested  on  the  stern  face  of  her  Uncle  David.  She 
tore  the  flowers  from  her  hair  and  bodice  and  grasped 
the  well  sweep  vehemently. 

David  Holden  was  a  stout,  broad  man,  his  figure 
giving  one  the  impression  of  great  weight  combined 
with  lightness  of  foot.  He  had  an  honest  face,  a 
pair  of  keen  eyes,  and  an  aquiline  nose.  A  head  of 
bushy  gray  hair,  thick  and  rebellious,  rose  in  rather 
a  formidable  manner  above  a  broad,  intellectual 
brow,  while  the  lower  part  of  his  face  was  bearded 
after  the  custom  of  those  days.  His  dress  consisted 
of  knee-breeches,  belted  doublet,  hose  of  leather,  and 


DOROTHY.  9 

a  high,  stiff  hat ;  across  his  arm  rested  a  long  mantle 
of  dull-colored  stuff  that  fell  part  way  to  the  ground. 

Dorothy  turned  toward  him  with  an  embarrassed 
smile.  "  I  was  but  looking  at  mine  image  in  the 
well.  I  must  take  a  pail  of  water  to  the  house,  and 
must  hasten;  Aunt  Martha  is  most  urgent." 

The  old  man's  eyes  had  a  twinkle  in  them,  as  he 
answered :  "  Hast  never  seen  thine  image  before  ? 
Methinks  thou  hast.  What  does  the  good  minister 
tell  thee  on  the  Lord's  Day?"  His  voice  took  on 
a  more  solemn  tone.  "  Thy  time  is  not  thine  own ; 
'tis  but  loaned.  We  are  in  probation ;  waste  not 
the  fleeting  moments." 

.  "  He  says  many  things  that  I  do  not  always 
heed,"  she  replied  carelessly.  "  To  speak  the  truth, 
I  sleep  more  often  than  I  listen."  As  she  spoke  she 
raised  the  sweep  again ;  the  pail  fell  into  the  well, 
emitting  a  gurgling  sound  as  it  rilled  with  water. 

"  Dorothy,"  screamed  her  aunt,  "  I  want  to  know 
if  the  well  is  empty,  and  thou  goest  a  mile  to  the 
creek  for  water?  " 

"  I  am  coming,"  called  Dorothy,  as  she  raised  her 
eyes  to  see  her  aunt  in  the  door  of  the  kitchen, 
'one  foot  raised,  preparatory  to  descending  the  three 
stone  steps  that  led  to  the  ground. 


10  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

Uncle  David  chuckled.  "  Thou  hadst  better  make 
haste,  Dorothy ;  she  is  wroth  with  thee." 

Dorothy  grasped  the  brimming  pail,  and  stooping 
to  one  side,  her  arm  stretched  out  to  balance  herself, 
she  walked  quickly  toward  the  house. 

Seven  years  after  the  landing  on  Plymouth  Rock 
the  colony  of  Salem  was  formed,  and  Salem  village 
founded  as  its  capital ;  the  name  typifying  the  peace 
which  the  brave  and  persecuted  Puritans  hoped  to 
win  in  the  New  World. 

The  first  permanent  settlement  of  the  place  was 
made  in  1628,  John  Endicott,  the  first  governor, 
coming  to  the  bleak,  inhospitable  shores  with  the 
immigrants. 

In  1630  a  body  of  colonists  from  England  were 
introduced  to  the  new  settlement  by  the  succeeding 
governor,  John  Winthrop. 

Both  Endicott  and  Winthrop  held  the  welfare  of 
the  new  province  very  near  their  hearts,  and  they 
laid  many  ambitious  plans  for  its  advancement. 
Their  policy  was  excellent  in  inducing  intelligent 
and  worthy  men  to  settle,  bringing  their  energy  and 
high  purpose  to  bear  upon  the  future  of  the  town. 

Naturally,  the  principal  occupation  in  those  early 
times  was  farming.  By  industry,  patience,  and 


DOROTHY.  I  I 

thrift,  the  somber  forests  gradually  gave  place  to 
rich  and  profitable  farms.  The  wild  beasts  and  the 
Indians  were  driven  to  seek  remoter  haunts,  though 
the  latter  were  a  constant  menace  for  many  years 
to  the  early  settlers,  often  entering  the  villages  and 
committing  many  deeds  of  violence. 

These  self-contained,  undemonstrative  Puritans 
were  possessed  of  a  strong  religious  fervor,  a  fervor 
that  permeated  their  every- day  lives ;  their  religion 
was  their  law.  Neither  friend  nor  foe  was  able  to 
eradicate  the  clinging  fibers  of  their  creed,  which, 
like  the  roots  of  a  great  tree,  spread  throughout 
their  whole  being.  The  Scriptures  contained  for 
them  all  the  requirements  needed  for  the  saving  of 
their  souls.  Their  daily  lives  were  to  them  exam 
ples  of  a  faith  which  demonstrated  fully  that  this 
short  earthly  span  was  but  a  probation  in  hardship 
for  a  happier  existence.  So  cold,  so  austere,  so  un 
smiling  was  the  weary  routine  they  practiced. 

They  had  left  their  homes  in  England  to  seek  in 
a  new  land  both  political  and  religious  freedom,  and 
there  was  no  room  in  the  new  settlement  for  those 
who  differed  from  themselves.  Thus,  unconsciously, 
they  gave  what  they  had  received,  intolerance  for 
intolerance,  narrowness  for  narrowness. 


12  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

Some  sixteen  years  before  the  opening  of  this 
story  an  emigrant  ship  sailed  before  a  brisk  wind 
toward  the  shores  of  Salem  harbor.  On  the  deck, 
eagerly  scanning  the  fast  approaching  land,  stood  a 
woman,  holding  a  baby  in  her  arms.  By  her  side 
stood  a  tall,  muscular-looking  man.  These  people 
were  David  Holden,  Martha  his  sister,  and  their 
little  niece  Dorothy.  Driven  by  persecution  and 
injustice  from  the  mother-country,  they  were  seek 
ing  an  asylum  in  the  New  World. 

A  year  before  their  pretty,  blue-eyed  sister  had 
died.  Her  husband,  a  rollicking  trooper  in  the  army 
of  "  Merry  Charles,"  had  been  killed  in  battle,  so 
Martha  and  David  took  their  beautiful  child  to  their 
hearts.  They  made  the  subject  of  her  adoption  a 
theme  for  lengthy  and  serious  prayer,  asking  God 
that  He  would  teach  them  how  to  do  their  duty  by 
the  little  orphan,  so  that  her  feet  might  ever  tread 
the  narrow  path — narrow,  unfortunately,  in  more 
ways  than  one. 

When  Dorothy  entered  the  kitchen  her  aunt  was 
busy  assisting  a  bond-servant  to  prepare  the  simple 
midday  meal.  She  did  not  look  up  or  address  her 
niece.  Dorothy  placed  the  pail  of  water  upon  a  low 
bench  near  the  door,  then,  going  to  the  window, 
commenced  to  drum  upon  the  small  diamond  panes 


DOROTHY.  13 

of  the  casement.  She  leaned  lazily  forward  upon 
the  deep  window-ledge  and  gazed  dreamily  out  into 
the  sunshine.  Just  beyond  the  kitchen  door,  on  the 
bough  of  a  lilac  bush  a  little,  fat  yellow-bird  was 
singing  sweetly,  stopping  now  and  then  to  peck  at 
his  feathers  and  glance  cautiously  around.  Then  he 
would  throw  back  his  glistening  head,  bursting  into 
trills  of  exquisite  melody,  like  some  tiny,  perfect 
organ  endowed  to  chant  the  Creator's  praise.  Dor 
othy  listened  sympathetically,  longing  to  join  him  in 
his  chorus,  envying  him  his  freedom  and  lightness  of 
heart. 

Presently  David  Holden  came  in  with  slow  and 
solemn  gait.  He  washed  his  hands  in  the  basin  near 
the  door,  then  seated  himself  not  far  from  the  table 
where  Martha  was  working  some  pats  of  butter  into 
various  shapes. 

Suddenly  Dorothy  turned  toward  them  impetu 
ously,  deserting  her  view  of  the  sunshine,  her  enjoy 
ment  of  the  song  of  the  little  bird.  Her  manner 
was  nervous  and  excited.  The  rigid  austerity  of 
their  countenances  and  demeanor,  so  at  variance 
with  her  laughter-loving  nature,  oppressed  her 
strangely.  Perhaps  there  flowed  in  her  quickly 
moving  blood  something  more  akin  to  her  dare 
devil  father,  the  jolly  trooper,  than  to  her  gentle 


14  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

Puritan  mother.  Perhaps  the  beautiful  May-day, 
with  GocTs  gift  of  flowers  and  sunshine,  had  made 
her  feel  with  keener  intensity  the  somberness  and 
narrowness  of  her  life. 

"  Aunt  Martha  " — there  were  tears  in  her  voice  as 
she  turned  excitedly  toward  the  unsmiling  couple,  and 
she  spoke  rapidly,  the  sentences  tumbling  upon  each 
other  in  a  torrent  of  vehemence — "  I  would  that  I 
might  go  away  from  Salem ;  I  am  not  happy  here. 
Ah,  that  I  might  go  to  England  to  my  father's  peo 
ple  !  Mistress  Hobbs  did  tell  me  but  yesterday  that 
there  they  sing  and  dance  and  attend  the  plays; 
that  great  pageants  are  in  the  streets,  and  the  great 
ladies  wear  embroidered  bodices  of  scarlet  and  fine 
attire  of  linen  and  of  satin."  She  paused ;  her  breath 
came  quickly,  her  cheeks  were  flushed,  the  light  in 
her  blue  eyes  glowed  like  stars.  "  I  love  the  sun 
shine  and  the  woods,"  she  continued;  "I  love  to 
sing  and  laugh.  Why  does  the  good  Book  forbid  us 
to  be  happy?"  she  demanded  impatiently.  "Why 
should  we  be  miserable  when  all  else  that  are  created 
are  free  to  enjoy  their  lives?" 

Martha  had  turned  from  the  table  and  her  work, 
and  stood  eying  her  niece  in  amazement  and  dis 
pleasure.  Her  uncle  had  closed  his  mouth  grimly. 


DOROTHY.  15 

"  Thou  art  an  ungrateful  wench,"  said  her  aunt 
sternly.  "  Have  I  not  loved  thee  and  toiled  for 
thee?  And  now  thou  wouldst  turn  and  sting  me. 
Dorothy,  Satan  is  tempting  thee ;  beware  of  his 
foils;  pray  that  thou  mayest  resist  his  wiles." 

Dorothy  flung  out  her  hands  wildly.  "  I  must 
speak,  I  must  tell  thee  both  of  my  feelings ;  I  can 
withstand  this  desire  within  me  no  longer;  I  must 
sing  and  dance ;  I  like  not  to  pray  forever.  Ah, 
that  I  might  be  free,  free,  just  once  to  go  forth  into 
the  great  world — where,  I  care  not,  only  to  be  free ! " 
She  choked  hysterically ;  her  listeners  eyed  her  in 
amazement  and  dread.  Before  her  scandalized  aunt 
and  uncle  were  aware  of  her  intentions,  she  had 
frantically  torn  the  little  mob-cap  from  her  curls,  and 
taking  hold  of  her  skirts  on  either  side,  she  lifted 
them  slightly  above  her  trim  ankles,  and,  singing 
more  sweetly  than  the  yellow-bird  that  listened  on 
the  flowering  bush,  without  the  door,  she  tripped 
lightly  across  the  kitchen  boards  in  a  fantastic  dance, 
keeping  time  to  her  steps  with  a  sweet  roulade 
heard  from  the  gossiping  Mistress  Hobbs : 

"  Ah,  to  be  free,  'neath  the  greenwood  tree, 

With  my  true-lover  bold! 
There  to  sing,  while  cowslips  bring 
Sweet  dew  in  cups  of  gold." 


1 6  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

Martha,  her  stern  old  face  suffused  with  a  blush, 
cried  angrily,  "  Dorothy,  cease,  I  say ;  cease,  thou 
wicked  girl !  I  will  e'en  tell  Mr.  Wentworth  of  thee  ; 
he  will  commission  Mr.  Parris  to  call  thee  out  in 
meeting.  Hast  thou  no  self-respect?  Thy  dance 
is  an  abomination.  Cease!"  She  started  in  pursuit 
of  the  laughing  girl,  who  adroitly  evaded  her  grasp. 
The  rather  unusual  spectacle  then  took  place  of 
the  staid  middle-aged  woman  taking  part  in  what 
appeared  to  be  an  impromptu  dance.  Round  and 
round  went  Dorothy,  laughing,  singing,  every  mo 
tion  filled  with  grace,  her  lovely  face  dimpled  with 
mischief,  as  she  dodged  her  panting,  corpulent  aunt, 
who  followed  in  hot  pursuit. 

"  Only  one  more  round,  Aunt  Martha,"  she  cried, 
"  then  I  will  ask  thee  to  forgive  me,  and  I  know 
thou  wilt;  thou  canst  not  help  it." 

She  started  again,  and  danced  forward  into  a 
patch  of  sunlight  that  lay  across  the  wtfoden  floor; 
holding  her  skirts  higher  on  one  side  and  peeping 
over  them,  she  gave  a  clear,  rippling  laugh,  like  that 
of  a  child  caught  in  mischief.  She  looked  back  over 
her  shoulder  toward  her  uncle,  who  had  turned  his 
head  discreetly  aside,  deeming  the  mere  witnessing 
of  this  unhallowed  scene  a  falling  from  grace ;  then 


DOROTHY.  17 

with  lowered  eyelids,  and  making  a  deep,  mocking 
curtsey,  she  rose  abruptly,  to  behold  the  stern  eyes 
of  Mr.  Wentworth,  the  foremost  deacon  of  the  Puri 
tan  Church,  looking  down  reprovingly  upon  her  from 
the  open  doorway. 

Aunt  Martha  stepped  forward  and  took  the  em 
barrassed  girl  by  the  shoulder,  shaking  her  a  little 
roughly.  "  She  is  a  headstrong  girl ;  thou  must  re 
prove  her,"  she  cried  excitedly  to  the  man  who  stood 
waiting  expectantly  upon  the  doorstep.  "  She  has 
danced  a  most  heathenish  dance,  here,  in  the  Holden 
home;  thou  hast  just  witnessed  those  outlandish 
steps.  My  advice  is  not  heeded ;  she  is  a  degener 
ate  sinner.  I  am  indeed  most  fearful  for  the  welfare 
of  her  soul." 

Mr.  Alden  Wentworth,  the  new-comer,  was  the 
rising  young  advocate  of  Salem ;  in  fact,  he  had 
already  been  called  to  the  dignity  of  the  bench.  He 
was  also  a  deacon  in  the  church,  and  much  esteemed 
by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Parris,  the  pastor  of  the  Salem  flock. 
He  had  held  these  two  important  positions  but  a 
year;  in  that  short  time,  however,  he  had  succeeded 
in  gaining  the  love,  respect,  and  confidence  of  the 
community  at  large,  besides  being  held  in  high  esti 
mation  by  the  governor.  Mr.  Wentworth  was  still 


1 8  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

a  young  man,  being  between  thirty  and  thirty- five 
years  of  age ;  a  scholar,  honest,  upright,  conscien 
tious,  and  the  staunchest  of  Puritan  adherents. 
Moreover,  he  was  handsome,  with  dark,  deep-set, 
penetrating  eyes,  and  a  firm  mouth  whose  lines  de 
noted  gentleness  combined  with  a  strong  will.  He 
was  tall  and  well  formed,  his  muscular  frame  indi 
cating  health  and  great  strength. 

Dorothy  looked  frightened  and  embarrassed  as 
Mr.  Wentworth's  reproving  glance  fell  upon  her. 
She  hung  her  head ;  the  rosy  glow  that  had  recently 
burnt  in  her  cheeks  spread  to  her  brow  and  neck. 

"A  dance!"  echoed  the  shocked  deacon  in  dis 
may.  "  Dorothy,  I  scarce  can  credit  these  words ; 
thou,  a  child  of  prayer!" 

Dorothy  looked  up  at  him  timidly  through  her 
long  lashes,  now  wet  with  tears.  "  I  am  indeed  a 
wicked  girl,  Mr.  Wentworth,"  she  glanced  appeal- 
ingly  upward,  "  yet  when  the  robins  and  the  little 
yellow-birds  sang  I  felt  full  envious  of  them.  I 
must  e'en  join  them  in  their  melody,  then  the  dance 
must  needs  come  next ;  I  could  not  still  my  feet,  I 
had  not  power.  Thou  wilt  forgive  me  if  I  transgress 
no  more.  Thou  wilt  not,  oh,  thou  wilt  not  tell  Mr. 
Parris?  he  surely  will  call  me  out  in  meeting." 


DOROTHY.  19 

Alden  Wentworth  did  not  reply  immediately ;  he 
gazed  earnestly  at  the  pleading  face  upturned  to  his, 
as  she  stood  in  the  patch  of  yellow  sunlight,  the 
clear  radiance  seeming  part  of  her  own  vivacious 
personality.  A  strange,  inscrutable  expression 
shone  in  his  eyes  as  he  watched  her.  Then  he 
stepped  forward  abruptly ;  the  sunshine  enveloping 
Dorothy  became  obscured  by  the  tall  shadow  that 
fell  across  its  brightness.  With  its  fading  a  gloom 
spread  itself  upon  the  dull,  smoked  walls  of  the 
kitchen.  The  girl  seemed  snatched,  as  it  were,  from 
the  sound  of  song  and  joy  to  the  coldness,  bleak 
ness,  and  silence  of  night. 

"  Dorothy,"  he  said  in  his  quiet  voice,  its  intona 
tions  solemn  with  a  subdued,  pious  melancholy,  "  I 
shall  not  acquaint  Mr.  Parris  of  thy  misdeed,  though 
for  the  levity  of  a  dance  he  surely  would  call  thee 
out  in  meeting;  but  far  be  it  from  my  policy  to  thus 
shame  thee.  Thou  art  as  God  made  thee,  filled  with 
the  life  of  youth  and  joy.  That  thou  canst  not 
help;  'tis  thine  inheritance."  He  paused,  then  con 
tinued  more  solemnly :  "  But  be  ever  on  thy  safe 
guard  that  this  inheritance  draw  not  its  net  more 
closely  around  thy  life  and  strangle  thee.  Satan 
hath  many  devices ;  he  gives  lightness  to  the  foot 


2O  DOROTHY   THE   PURITAN. 

and  sweetness  to  the  song ;  beware  lest  he  control 
thy  steps  awry." 

Martha  and  David  listened  respectfully  to  this 
reproof,  now  and  then  shaking  their  heads  in  acqui 
escence,  and  glancing  askance  at  Dorothy,  as  she 
wiped  the  fast-falling  tears  with  the  corner  of  her 
apron,  her  rosy,  pouting  lips  trembling,  as  she  en 
deavored  to  regain  her  self-control. 

Presently  she  drew  nearer  to  the  reproving  judge. 
"  Then  thou  art  not  wroth  with  me,  Mr.  Went- 
worth?" 

"  No,  my  child,"  he  answered  kindly. 

She  stepped  close  to  him,  and  grasped  his  hand. 
"  I  thank  thee ;  thou  art  more  kind  than  aunt.  I 
will  come  to  meeting  always,  and  I  will  obey  thee, 
and  never  laugh  in  the  Lord's  house  again  when  the 
tithing-man  strikes  old  Goodman  Weldon  with  the 
hard  stick  on  his  bald  head  for  sleeping.  He  cried 
out  loud  last  Sabbath.  Didst  hear  him,  Mr.  Went- 
worth?  It  was  such  rare  sport  to  see  his  grimace." 

Mr.  Wentworth  smiled  slightly,  but  did  not 
reply. 

"  Ah,  that  sermon,"  she  continued  mournfully, 
"  was  full  three  hours  long.  I  saw  the  hour-glass 
on  the  pulpit  ledge  turned  so  oft,  and  the  sands  fell 


DOROTHY.  21 

through  so  slowly.  I  cannot  tell  thee  how  weary  I 
was.  I  wish  that  Mr.  Parris  would  let  some  other 
minister  preach.  He  drones  and  drones,  till  one 
grows  weary  with  sleep." 

"  No,  no,  Dorothy,  say  not  that ;  'tis  not  respect 
ful  to  thy  pastor.  Methinks  the  sermon  last  Lord's 
Day  was  filled  with  solace  and  godly  sayings. 
Three  hours  is  not  long  to  hearken  to  the  Word  of 
God." 

"  Tis  long  when  the  soul  is  far  away,"  answered 
Dorothy  dreamily.  "  Full  oft  I  know  not  where  I 
am  till  Mr.  Parris  calls  loudly  from  the  pulpit  for 
attention." 

Mr.  Wentworth  smiled  indulgently.  "  Thou  art 
but  a  child  as  yet;  wisdom  will  come  in  time."  He 
then  turned  abruptly  to  Martha  and  David.  "  I 
called  to  acquaint  thee,  Mistress  Holden,  with  the 
fact  that  old  Goody  Trueman  hath  been  seen  again 
on  the  edge  of  the  forest.  They  do  say  her  cloak 
was  of  the  color  of  fire ;  that  a  black  demon  stood 
by  her  side,  and  did  hover  over  her  as  she  plucked 
the  poisonous  ivy  that  grew  upon  the  rocky  hillside. 
When  Jonathan  Wells,  who  saw  her  approach,  raised 
his  stick  to  send  her  adrift  she  was  no  more  seen ; 
the  stick  did  but  cleave  empty  space;  only  a  small 


22  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

red  glow  was  visible  against  the  clouds.  It  was  as 
though  she  had  risen  with  her  imps  in  the  air." 

"  I  can  well  credit  all  I  hear  of  Goody  Trueman ; 
she  is  of  a  .certainty  a  witch,  and  hath  signed  the 
treaty  with  the  Prince  of  Darkness,"  said  David. 

Martha  made  no  comment.  She  looked  distressed 
and  troubled. 

"  Perchance  thy  words  are  true,"  answered  the 
judge  gravely,  "  yet  we  conjecture  not  aright  always 
when  we  think  we  behold  the  agents  of  the  devil. 
I  do  but  speak  to  thee  of  these  sayings  that  be 
abroad  in  Salem  to  warn  thee  to  be  circumspect, 
and  if  this  creature  do  possess  this  dreaded  power, 
to  be  on  thy  guard." 

"  Kindness  is  ever  thy  forte,"  replied  David. 
"  We  thank  thee  for  thy  warning." 

Mr.  Wentworth  replaced  his  steeple-crowned  hat 
and  stepped  toward  the  door.  As  he  changed  his 
position,  the  shadow  fell  from  Dorothy.  She  stood 
once  more  in  the  sunshine,  his  earnest  glance  resting 
upon  her.  "  I  bid  thee  good-day,  Dorothy,"  he 
said.  "  I  trust  to  see  thee  in  thy  place  to-morrow 
at  the  meeting-house.  Dry  thy  tears,  and  when 
thy  feet  are  restless,  walk  to  the  Lord's  house  and 
commune  with  God  in  thy  soul.  'Tis  far  better  for 


DOROTHY.  23 

thee  than  the  riotous  dance.  When  thou  must  sing, 
sing  the  psalms.  Are  they  not  filled  with  peace 
and  all  good  promises?  " 

"  Methinks  I  am  not  good  as  thou  art,  Mr.  Went- 
worth.  I  have  another  self  within  me  that  does 
ever  urge  me  in  the  wrong  direction.  Why  has 
God  willed  us  to  be  unhappy  when  He  has  given  us 
so  much  to  enjoy?  "  she  concluded  sadly. 

"  'Tis  for  discipline,  the  preparation  for  immortal 
ity,"  he  replied  earnestly  ;  "  pray  constantly  that  thy 
probation  be  acceptable.  We  were  not  created  for 
happiness,  but  that  through  our  privations  we  might 
atone  for  our  many  sins,  and  through  much  misery 
be  saved,  and  found  at  the  last  garnered  into  the 
Lord's  house." 

"  I  will  e'en  try,  Mr.  Wentworth,  yet  it  is  very 
hard."  She  smiled  her  pretty  smile  upon  him;  he 
bowed,  and  went  his  way  under  the  drooping  lilac 
bush,  and  the  little  bird  upon  its  branch  burst  forth 
into  merry  song  again. 

Dorothy  folded  her  hands  demurely,  and  looking 
toward  her  aunt,  she  said  contritely,  "  I  am  sorry  I 
danced  that  awful  dance,  Aunt  Martha.  Shall  I  not 
help  thee  form  the  butter-pats?" 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE    WOOING   OF   THE    PURITAN. 

IT  is  well  to  state  here  the  position  in  which  the 
ministers  of  the  Puritan  days  stood  in  relation  to 
their  people.  None  of  the  early  colonists  would 
have  dared  or,  it  is  likely,  wished  to  disparage  their 
pastor's  teachings,  or  in  fact  any  of  the  ordinances 
of  the  church.  No  reproaches  were  tolerated,  no 
criticisms  condoned.  Severe  were  the  whippings 
and  fines  that  befell  any  luckless  delinquent  who 
might  express  disapprobation  of  the  length  of  the 
sermons  or  prayers  of  the  pastor. 

This  unlimited  control  extended  not  only  over  the 
religious  life,  but  also  over  the  secular.  The  minis 
ter's  word  was  law ;  even  in  regard  to  many  trivial 
every-day  concerns  he  was  consulted,  and  his  decis 
ion  abided  by. 

The  honor  of  being  deacon  was  second  only  to 
that  of  being  minister.  The  deacons  had  especially 
important  duties  to  perform.  During  the  absence 
of  the  pastor  one  of  them  conducted  the  service. 

24 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    PURITAN.  25 

The  deacons'  pew  occupied  a  position  raised  above 
the  level  of  the  ground,  and  there  they  sat  in  solemn 
state,  leaning  against  their  stiff,  high-backed  chairs, 
the  objects  of  great  respect,  not  to  say  reverential 
awe. 

The  Sabbath  day  was  observed  literally  according 
to  the  command  of  the  Bible,  "  Remember  the  Sab 
bath  day  to  keep  it  holy;"  and  many  other  strict 
laws  were  enforced,  and  in  most  part  cheerfully 
consented  to  by  the  people.  To  enhance  the  sacred- 
ness  of  the  Lord's  Day,  it  was  filled  from  early 
morning  till  sundown  with  prayers,  sermons,  and 
singing  of  psalms.  All  attended  the  meetings,  some 
coming  from  a  long  distance  and  suffering  much 
inconvenience  in  the  heat  of  summer,  or  in  the  cold 
and  storms  of  the  long  New  England  winters. 

Little  children  came,  tiny  images  of  their  solemn 
parents,  while  a  tithing-man  kept  order  with  a  long 
stick,  prodding  the  unfortunate  ones  who  fell  asleep 
during  the  three-hour  sermons.  The  seats  were 
hard,  mere  boards  without  backs;  the  men  sat  on 
one  side  of  the  edifice,  the  women  on  the  other. 

Unruly  boys,  "sons  of  Belial,"  as  the  deacons 
called  them,  had  seats  by  themselves  in  the  gallery, 
and  the  tithing-man  hovered  in  their  vicinity  with 


26  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

frowns  and  threatening  gestures,  his  formidable  bear 
ing  reducing  the  giggling,  wriggling,  weary  little 
Puritan  boys  to  a  condition  of  depressed  submission. 

The  meeting-house  was  roughly  constructed  and 
unpainted.  The  rafters  were  exposed  to  view,  and 
spiders  spun  great  gossamer  webs  from  beam  to 
beam,  airy,  waving  structures ;  an  endless  joy  and 
diversion  to  the  poor  little  restless  boys  and  girls 
who  nodded  and  twisted  uneasily  on  the  hard  seats 
below. 

There  were  no  shutters  to  the  building,  so  that 
the  glare  in  summer  must  have  been  intolerable ; 
while  in  winter  the  aching  feet  and  hands  and  be 
numbed  frames  of  the  pious  church-members,  seated 
rigidly  in  the  fireless  building,  surely  showed  of 
what  heroic  material  these  old  Puritans  were  made. 

Between  the  services  a  lunch  was,  partaken  of  in  a 
"  Sabba-house,"  built  on  one  side  of  the  church  for 
that  purpose.  It  was  a  very  solemn  lunch  ;  no  hilar 
ity  being  allowed,  no  jest  or  light  word  being  per 
mitted.  Then  back  they  repaired  to  the  meeting 
house  to  more  psalm-singing,  more  lengthy  sermons  ; 
then  home  in  the  evening  glow  of  the  twilight  to 
the  grim  routine  of  the  hard-working  week  to  come. 

This  is  certainly  a  drear,  cold  picture  to  contem- 


THE    WOOING   OF   THE    PURITAN.  2J 

plate,  gazing  backward  through  the  centuries,  from 
the  luxury  and  ease  of  our  modern  days.  It  is  not 
unnatural  that  the  hardships  they  encountered  in 
the  mere  struggle  for  existence,  the  fear  of  Indians 
and  of  wild  beasts,  their  dread  imaginings  regarding 
the  mysteries  of  nature,  which  lay  yet  hidden  in  the 
depths  of  the  unexplored  wilderness,  should  have 
imparted  a  gloom  and  a  mysticism  to  their  disposi 
tions,  and  belief  in  the  supernatural. 

The  settlement  of  Salem  was  somewhat  scattered ; 
its  houses  were  simple  but  comfortable,  built  princi 
pally  after  a  uniform  pattern — large,  dormer-win 
dowed,  and  gambrel-roofed.  The  land  was  rocky 
and  difficult  to  farm ;  the  roads  mere  bridle  paths 
cut  through  the  gloomy  wilderness. 

Yet  these  Puritans  gloried  in  their  hardships. 
They  had  come  to  the  New  World  for  freedom  of 
thought  in  their  belief,  and  they  had  gained  what 
they  sought;  they  were  content;  they  asked  no 
more ;  their  sufferings  but  increased  the  value  of 
their  freedom.  As  is  the  case,  however,  with  all 
bigotry  and  prejudice,  they  drew  the  bands  too 
tight ;  they  snapped,  and  dire  was  the  result. 

From  the  frivolities  and  follies  of  the  English 
court,  from  the  lawlessness  of  the  Cavaliers,  they 


28  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

recoiled  in  horror.  They  preferred  a  life  of  weary 
hardship,  with  permission  to  worship  God  in  their 
own  way,  to  the  daintiest  home-nest  in  the  mother- 
country.  And  so  they  came,  a  gloomy,  solemn 
company,  from  over  the  seas,  bringing  with  them 
in  their  characters  the  results  of  injustice  and  of 
intolerance. 

The  pleasant  May  had  passed.  June,  glorious 
with  the  brilliancy  of  flowers  and  fleecy  clouds,  and 
the  pleasant  shade  of  full-leaved  trees,  had  come  to 
the  little  village.  Dorothy  wandered  often  by  the 
edge  of  the  forest,  sometimes  alone,  sometimes  with 
her  girl  friends. 

She  loved  best  to  be  alone ;  the  straight-laced, 
sad  little  maids  of  the  settlement  were  not  much  to 
her  liking.  She  would  gather  the  wild  violet  and 

9 

the  strange  feathery  ferns  that  bordered  some  little 
murmuring  stream,  and  as  she  placed  them  in  the 
bodice  of  her  dress  or  in  her  hair,  she  would  speak 
to  them  :  "  Thou  art  free,  little  violets  and  soft  green 
fern ;  thou  canst  live  thy  life  as  thou  wilt ;  none  can 
hinder  thee  ;  thou  canst  sit  in  the  shade  and  nod  and 
dream  right  merrily  till  the  summer  grows  hot  and 
dry ;  then  thou  fallest  asleep,  till  another  year  shall 
wake  thee  again." 


THE    WOOING   OF   THE    PURITAN.  2Q 

The  rippling  stream  would  answer  for  the  silence 
of  the  flower,  responding  to  her  queries  in  low,  sing 
ing  tQ.nes.  It  seemed  to  comprehend  her  loneliness 
and  her  seeking  for  the  right  to  indulge  in  the  natural 
gayety  of  youth.  She  returned  one  evening  at  dusk 
to  the  farm,  after  one  of  these  wanderings  prolonged 
beyond  the  usual  hour.  She  had  been  alarmed  by 
the  appearance  of  old  Goody  Trueman,  the  acknowl 
edged  witch,  whom  she  had  seen  standing  on  a  dis 
tant  hill  and  whom  she  held  greatly  in  dread. 

Dorothy  hastened  her  footsteps,  speeding  lightly 
along  over  the  grassy  road  that  led  through  the 
narrow  lane.  The  darkness  was  coming  on  rapidly ; 
strange  sounds  issued  from  the  rustling  trees  and 
from  the  summer  foliage,  growing  thick  and  luxu 
riantly  by  the  roadside.  An  owl  hooted  in  a  tall 
oak ;  a  bat  flapped  his  wings  across  her  face.  The 
air  was  filled  with  the  soft,  aromatic  scents  of  shrubs 
and  wrild-flowers,  their  delicate  perfumes  intensified 
by  the  dew  that  rested  on  their  leaves. 

The  realization  that  she  had  been  in  the  actual 
presence  of  the  witch,  though  distant  from  her,  filled 
Dorothy  with  a  nameless  dread.  When  she  reached 
the  farm  gate,  she  threw  it  open  and  walked  quickly 
up  the  path  to  the  little  porch.  Her  heart  was 


3O  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

beating  wildly  and  her  breath  came  in  short  gasps. 
She  seated  herself  on  the  rough  bench  in  the  porch, 
and  removed  her  cap  from  her  heated  brow.  , 

It  was  quite  dark  now ;  the  night  had  come,  a 
few  pale  stars  hung  twinkling  in  the  sky  ;  banks  of 
somber  clouds  floated  up  from  the  north.  Far  off 
toward  the  east  a  circle  of  light  glowed,  the  harbin 
ger  of  the  "  Queen  of  Night."  All  was  still  about 
the  farm. 

Dorothy  experienced  a  peculiar  restlessness,  a 
loneliness  encompassed  her ;  she  felt  as  if  she  must 
speak  to  some  one,  at  least  feel  a  living  presence,  or 
from  the  sheer  nervousness  of  fear  scream  aloud. 

Suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  Martha,  closely 
followed  by  David,  stepped  to  Dorothy's  side. 

"  Dorothy,"  she  said  (there  was  a  suppressed 
eagerness  in  her  voice,  an  exultant  sound,  very 
different  from  her  usual  rasping,  fault-finding  into 
nations),  "  hast  thou  been  here  long?  I  did  not  hear 
thee  come.  Thy  uncle  and  I  have  been  waiting 
impatiently  for  thee ;  we  have  a  subject  of  great  im 
portance  to  discuss  with  thee."  She  came  close  to 
the  girl,  laid  her  hand  tenderly  upon  her  shoulder, 
and  leaned  over  to  look  into  her  face. 

"  I  have  been  here  but  a  short  time.     I  have  been 


THE    WOOING   OF   THE    PURITAN.  31 

sorely  affrighted,  aunt.  Goody  Trueman  was  upon 
the  hill,  beyond  the  settlement ;  she  did  send  a  bat 
and  owl  to  torment  me.  They  flapped  their  wings 
upon  me,  but  I  did  utter  a  prayer  most  fervently 
and  hasten  my  steps,  and  they  left  me  then  in  peace." 
She  hesitated,  then  continued :  "  For  the  space  of 
many  moments  I  deemed  she  might  cast  her  spell 
upon  me  ;  I  covered  my  face  with  my  mantle  ;  when 
I  dared  look  again  she  had  disappeared.  Dost  think 
she  mounted  her  broomstick  ?  I  looked  most  search- 
ingly  into  the  clouds  but  could  see  nothing."  Dor 
othy  asked  this  anxiously. 

Martha  tossed  her  head  impatiently,  but  David 
shook  his  in  acquiescence,  and  with  decision.  "  No 
doubt  she  flew  above  thy  head  invisible.  Ah,  it  is 
an  awful  thing  to  contemplate,"  he  said.  "A  great 
danger  surely  confronted  thee." 

" 'Tis  arrant  folly;  broomsticks  forsooth!"  cried 
Martha  scornfully.  "  I  cannot  understand  such  non 
sense  ;  the  one  who  spreads  such  reports  should 
have  the  broomstick  laid  across  his  back ;  yet,  poor 
child,  I  have  no  doubt  it  alarmed  thee."  She 
paused,  then  continued  more  hurriedly :  "  Let  that 
pass ;  words  are  but  vain ;  we  will  not  worry  our 
selves  about  this  witch.  I  have  great  news  for  thee  ; 


32  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

thou  canst  never  conjecture.  I  will  tell  it  thee  right 
close  by  thine  ear,  my  little  Dorothy.  Now  hark 
ye :  thy  blue  eyes  and  winsome  face  have  won  for 
thee  the  greatest  honor  thou  canst  imagine.  Alden 
Went  worth  hath  asked  thy  uncle  and  me  to  give 
him  our  little  niece  in  marriage."  When  Martha's 
voice  pronounced  the  last  words  it  echoed  with  a 
ring  of  genuine  triumph  and  elation. 

"  Yes,"  said  David,  "our  Dorothy  hath  made  the 
greatest  match  in  Salem  village.  Thou  didst  not 
scheme  for  it ;  it  came  to  thee,  a  great  blessing  and 
a  great  honor." 

Dorothy  did  not  speak;  she  was  bewildered, 
amazed ;  she  clasped  her  bunch  of  violets  tighter 
in  her  hand,  and  arose  from  her  low  seat. 

"  Aunt,  uncle,"  she  gasped,  "  this  honor  surely 
cannot  be  for  me.  Mr.  Wentworth  hath  scarce 
addressed  me,  save  in  reproof ;  dost  thou  think  thine 
ears  heard  aright?  " 

"  Surely  we  heard  aright ;  our  ears  did  not  deceive 
us.  And  let  me  tell  thee,  Dorothy,  he  loves  thee 
deeply  ;  not  in  words  do  I  judge  of  this,  but  his 
face  shone  with  the  great  affection  he  held  for  thee. 
I  read  it  there,  and  when  he  spoke  he  said,  '  Tell  her 
my  heart  is  hers  ;  I  pray  that  she  may  care  for  me.' ' 


THE    WOOING   OF   THE    PURITAN.  33 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Martha,  I  never  can,  I  never  can !  My 
mind  is  filled  with  fear  of  him.  He  is  so  far  above 
me,  so  good,  so  different  from  me,  when  he  draws 
nigh  my  life  seems  slipping  from  me.  I  do  honor 
and  respect  him,  but  can  I  love  one  who  so  sorely 
doth  affright  me?  " 

"  Thou  art  but  a  fanciful  child ;  thou  knowest  not 
whereof  thou  speakest ;  thou  wilt  learn  to  love  him. 
Hast  thou  no  ambition  ?  Why,  thou  wilt  have  the 
first  place  in  the  meeting-house,  the  first  position  in 
the  colony.  Not  one  maiden  in  all  Salem  would  hesi 
tate.  As  for  his  goodness,  that  is  what  thou  needst. 
His  age  is  also  well;  he  can  guide  thee  better." 

The  position  enjoyed  by  the  minister's  wife  and 
the  wives  of  the  deacons  in  those  far-off  days  of 
Puritan  New  England  was  indeed  a  burdensome 
one,  though  probably  filled  with  a  triumph  of  its 
own.  No  doubt  this  distinction  was  partly  owing 
to  the  fact  that  there  were  few  positions  of  impor 
tance  to  fill. 

The  wife  who  held  so  prominent  a  place  amongst 
the  women  of  the  meeting-house  paid  in  part  her 
debt  for  that  greatness  by  being  continuously  under 
the  most  critical  supervision  from  the  watchful  eyes 
of  the  flock.  Her  actions,  her  motives,  her  house- 


34  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

hold  management,  and  above  all  her  observance 
of  the  Lord's  Day,  was  freely,  perhaps  not  always 
kindly,  discussed.  Still,  the  position  was  one  of  de 
cided  distinction ;  though  the  disadvantages  were 
perhaps  balanced  by  the  benefits. 

Poor  little  laughter-loving  Dorothy  recoiled  in 
dread  from  filling  this  exalted  place.  She  could  not 
grasp  its  honors ;  she  felt  only  that  with  it  came 
an  added  shade  of  dullness  and  suppression.  She 
looked  out  silently  into  the  sweet-scented  gloom  of 
the  summer  night,  past  the  tall  shrubs  that  stood  up 
ghost-like  in  the  darkness,  toward  the  distant  line  of 
sky  that  appeared  to  scintillate  and  throb  with  its 
thousands  of  twinkling  stars. 

A  depression  settled  upon  her  spirits ;  her  rosy- 
colored  views  of  life  changed  to  blackness.  Her 
cage  seemed  to  have  become  more  heavily  ironed, 
more  cramped;  she  felt  the  fetters  tugging  at  her 
heart,  binding  her  tightly,  strengthened  by  this 
destiny  which  fate  had  evidently  ordained  for  her. 

"  No,  no,  Aunt  Martha,  I  am  not  worthy  to  be  the 
wife  of  Judge  Wentworth.  I  would  shame  him  by 
my  levity.  Why,  even  now  I  am  a  scorn  to  the 
good  matrons  in  the  meeting-house.  Had  he  come 
to  me,  I  would  have  answered  him." 


THE   WOOING   OF   THE    PURITAN.  35 

"  Dorothy  Grey,"  cried  -her  aunt  sternly,  "  I  and 
thy  uncle  have  promised  thee ;  thou  belongst  to 
us  to  do  with  as  we  will.  We  give  thee  to  Alden 
Wentworth.  Come  to  thee,  indeed,  a  willful  child ! 
He  knew  the  respect  due  to  us." 

"  Yet,  aunt,  without  my  will  surely  he  would  not 
take  me;  he  has  overmuch  pride  for  that." 

"  He  comes  again  to-night  for  thy  answer."  Her 
aunt  spoke  decidedly.  "  Thou  shalt  tell  him  yes. 
Speak,  David;  thou  art  her  lawful  guardian." 

"  Dorothy,  I  have  promised  for  thee,"  said  her 
uncle  firmly.  "  Thy  happiness  is  my  wish.  In  this 
I  see  the  hand  of  God ;  by  that  guidance  I  thus 
command  thee.  Remember,  thou  art  my  ward ; 
thou  hast  no  voice  of  thine  own." 

Dorothy  bowed  her  head,  her  whole  frame  trem 
bled ;     the   nerveless   hands    that   held   the   flowers' 
clasped  and  unclasped,  the  petals   fell  withered  to 
the  floor  of  the  porch. 

"  I  must  e'en  say  yes,"  she  replied  in  a  low  voice ; 
"  my  will  is  not  strong  enough  to  contend  against 
thee.  And  yet — yet — if  Heaven,"  she  spoke  de 
spairingly,  "  would  but  send  a  spark  of  love  to  aid 
me  in  this  choice,  it  were  not  so  hard." 

"  Thou  art  a  good,  obedient  child ;  thou  wilt  be 


36  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

happy.  I  tell  thee  that  all  the  girls  in  Salem  will 
envy  thee.  That  bold  wench,  Elizabeth  Hubbard, 
hath  cast  love-eyes  for  full  six  months  at  Mr.  Went- 
worth,  but  he  heeds  her  not,  the  silly  thing,  with 
her  wicked  black  eyes.  But  thou  hast  won  him 
with  thy  sweet  face,  and  I  am  proud  of  thee.  Why, 
Dorothy,  we  will  be  among  the  first  people  in  the 
colony." 

"  Elizabeth  is  my  dearest  friend,  Aunt  Martha. 
I  would  he  had  chosen  her;  she  would  make  a 
worthier  wife  than  I." 

"Out  upon  thee,  say  not  such  things!  Rather 
thank  an  all-merciful  Providence  that  hath  given 
thee  this  good  place  ;  thou  art  ungrateful.  We  will 
leave  thee  now  to  reflect ;  in  a  short  space  the  judge 
will  be  here.  See  thou  treat  him  kindly.  Tis 
'well  the  night  is  dark,  else  he  would  see  thy  pale 
face." 

Dorothy  threw  her  arms  with  a  desperate  tender 
ness  around  her  aunt's  neck  and  laid  her  cheek 
against  hers.  "  I  would  that  he  had  frowned  upon 
me,"  she  murmured ;  "  I  do  so  fear  him.  Can  I 
ever  be  what  he  would  desire?  No — no,  Aunt 
Martha,  no — no." 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    PURITAN.  37 

"  Hush,  hush!  Compose  thyself;  all  will  be  well. 
'Tis  but  the  suddenness  of  the  offer." 

She  released  the  clinging  arms  and  departed  with 
her  brother,  leaving  Dorothy  seated  alone  in  the 
porch. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  girl  heard  the  firm 
steps  of  Alden  Wentworth  upon  the  garden  path. 
He  joined  her,  and  they  conversed  gravely  for  some 
moments  on  indifferent  subjects ;  then  he  drifted 
gradually  upon  that  deeper  theme  which  filled  his 
heart.  An  hour  passed  by ;  the  moon  rose  high 
among  the  clouds,  her  soft  light  resting  upon  Doro 
thy  as  she  leaned  listlessly  against  the  back  of  the 
old  settle.  Alden  Wentworth  had  risen  and  stood 
looking  down  upon  her  as  he  conversed  in  his  calm, 
even  tones,  for  the  Puritans  believed  in  moderation 
in  all  things,  considering  it  unnecessary  to  raise  the 
voice  to  impress  the  hearer. 

"  I  am  glad  thou  hast  been  sincere  with  me,  Dor 
othy  ;  I  know  now  that  thou  dost  not  love  me  deeply 
as  yet,  but  thou  wilt,  thou  wilt."  An  undertone  of 
strong  passion  lent  an  intensity  to  his  voice  as  he 
spoke,  though  in  all  probability  had  he  been  con 
scious  of  this  quality  he  would  have  crushed  it  then 


38  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

and  there.  "  My  love  will  draw  thee  to  me;  I  am 
patient,  I  am  content  to  wait  for  what  will  surely 
come.  Be  thou  always  open  and  frank  with  me,  as 
thou  hast  been  to-night.  Do  not  deceive  me ;  be 
sincere  with  me.  The  future  of  my  soul  and  thine 
requires  that  all  should  be  as  clear  as  noonday  be 
tween  us." 

A  shudder  passed  over  Dorothy  at  these  words, 
a  coldness  and  a  nameless  fear.  "  I  will  never  de 
ceive  thee,"  she  said.  "  I  will  never  deny  to  thee 
the  right  to  read  the  truth  between  us.  What  could 
I  withhold?  I  have  led  but  a  child's  life  under 
thine  eyes  in  Salem." 

"Thou  art  mine,  then,  forever." 

"  Ay,  I  am  thine ;  be  thou  lenient  to  my  youth 
and  follies.  Fate  has  given  me  to  thee ;  I  have 
not  wished  this  honor.  Be  kind  to  my  weaknesses." 

"  I  will,  Dorothy,  I  will." 

"  I  am  not  calm  like  the  people  about  me ;  thou 
hast  heard  of  my  father,  and  of  the  life  he  led  at 
court  as  one  of  the  favorite  troopers  of  Charles.  They 
say  I  have  my  mother's  face  and  my  father's  tem 
perament.  It  were  a  wrong  to  thee  did  I  deceive 
thee  in  regard  to  my  true  feelings.  Now  never 
canst  thou  reproach  me  for  a  falsehood." 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    PURITAN.  39 

"  Never,"  he  replied.  "All  is  fair  between  us. 
Some  day  thou  wilt  love  me,  and  I  will  try  very 
hard  to  make  thee  happy." 

So  Alden  Wentworth  went  his  way  over  the  sum 
mer  fields  back  to  the  town.  Dorothy  stood  where 
he  had  left  her,  thinking.  The  brilliant  moonlight 
enveloped  her  in  its  clear  luster,  her  face  was  up 
raised  to  the  heavens.  On  her  cheeks  rested  tears. 
The  soft  wind  blew  across  her  face ;  it  did  not  dry 
the  tears.  Ah  no!  they  came  too  rapidly.  A  bat 
flapped  his  wings  across  her  hair.  "Again,"  she 
cried  ;  "  twice  this  day !  'Tis  an  evil  omen ;  it  comes 
from  the  forest  witch.  O  Alden,"  she  stretched 
forth  her  arms  before  her  in  despair,  "  no  luck  at 
tends  our  betrothal.  Would  that  I  might  recall  my 
promise!  I  was  so  weak  to  yield,  as  though  my 
life  was  not  dull  and  lonely  enough  ;  but  I  must 
consent  to  still  my  song  and  stay  my  feet,  and  wed 
the  foremost  deacon  in  the  church."  . 

She  sat  very  still  for  some  time  within  the  shelter 
of  the  porch,  picturing  vaguely  the  sad-colored  path 
destiny  was  preparing  for  her  as  the  wife  of  the 
Puritan  judge.  "  This  honor  that  has  come  to  me 
is  but  void  and  dead,"  she  murmured.  "  There  is 
no  love  attending  it  to  give  it  life.  Had  I  the  cour- 


40  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

age  I  would  even  now  retract  my  promise.  Should 
I  do  this,  however,  Aunt  Martha  and  uncle  would 
disown  me ;  and  I  have  no  other  home,  no  fortune. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  I  shall  become  the  scandal 
of  the  town,  for  surely  at  times  my  spirits  will  gain 
the  mastery."  She  smiled  mischievously,  and  yet 
sadly,  at  this  last  reminder. 


CHAPTER    III. 

SIR    GRENVILLE   LAWSON. 

THE  betrothal  was  made  known,  and  great  was 
the  surprise  and  consternation  that  seized  upon  the 
good  people  of  Salem.  Many  a  wise  head  did  wag 
in  ominous  presentiment  of  dire  results.  Many  a 
sharp  tongue  did  expostulate  in  the  privacy  of  the 
home  circle  upon  the  grave  judge  being  bewitched 
by  the  light  in  a  fine  blue  eye,  not  seeking  further 
for  the  heart  beneath. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  Mr.  Wentworth  appeared  con 
tent.  It  was  with  a  tremulous  eagerness  he  leaned 
from  the  deacon's  pew  the  following  Lord's  Day, 
and  gazed  upon  Dorothy,  seated  demure  and  pale 
among  the  stern-visaged  matrons,  the  forced  grav 
ity  of  her  face  and  manner  being  in  marked  contrast 
to  her  usual  restless  condition.  Her  hands  were 
folded  quietly  in  her  lap,  her  gaze  wandering  dream 
ily  at  times  through  the  bare,  uncurtained  windows 
to  the  low  line  of  hills  beyond. 

It  was  to  Wentworth  as  if  all  the  inlets  to  his  soul 
41 


42  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

were  opened,  and  through  them  entered  the  sweet 
ness,  light,  and  love  of  a  new  world — a  world  that 
held  in  its  vague,  intangible  depths  a  vista  stretching 
over  flowering  vales  to  the  possibilities  of  an  exist 
ence  made  complete  by  Dorothy's  little  weak  hand. 
It  appeared  to  him  that  the  dull  atmosphere  that 
lay  thickly  above  the  narrow  path  in  which  he  had 
trodden  hitherto  had  risen  and  revealed  a  widened 
road.  On  that  road  there  was  room  beside  him  for 
one  in  whom  all  his  dreams  of  unalloyed  happiness 
were  centered. 

Perhaps  it  was  true,  as  the  villagers  said,  that  he 
was  deceived  by  a  sudden  fancy.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
in  this  deception  rested  his  hopes ;  he  did  not  desire 
the  veil  lifted. 

Mr.  Wentworth  possessed  to  the  fullest  degree  the 
cramped,  restricted,  puritanical  character;  he  shared 
freely  in  the  superstitions  of  his  creed  and  age.  Yet 
a  wealth  of  silent  sentiment  lay  buried  under  his 
reserve,  and  deeper  still  the  capabilities  of  a  strong, 
unswerving  affection. 

This  element  in  his  nature  appalled  him  at  times 
by  its  intensity,  when  its  object  rose  before  his  men 
tal  vision,  effacing  for  the  moment  the  customary 
monotony  of  his  life.  At  such  times  he  reproached 


SIR    GRENVILLE    LAWSON.  43 

himself  for  permitting  the  earthly  to  overshadow  the 
heavenly.  "Still,"  he  argued,  "I  am  but  a  man, 
and  I  love  her."  Then  relapsing  into  retrospection, 
he  would  question  seriously :  "  Can  it  be  wholly  of 
God,  this  mighty  love,  or  can  it  be  that  underneath 
it  lie  the  temptations  of  the  Evil  One  ?  Why  should 
that  fair  face  come  between  me  and  my  Bible,  and 
smile  upon  me  from  the  leaves  of  my  psalm-book, 
and  cause  me  to  wander  in  my  prayers?  If  a 
Heaven-sent  gift,  why  thus  clog  the  wheels  of 
duty?" 

Dorothy,  who  had  not  yet  felt  within  her  the 
capacity  for  a  great  love,  calmly  acquiesced  in  the 
accepted  order  of  things.  And  Wentworth,  slow  to 
express  his  feelings,  did  not  cause  any  unrest  within 
her  mind  by  protestations  of  affection.  The  wooing 
went  placidly  on  its  calm  way,  like  a  smooth  river, 
no  warning  ripples  on  its  surface  indicating  the  deep, 
dangerous  channel  beneath. 

It  was  the  custom  at  stated  times  of  the  year  for 
the  good  matrons  of  the  village  to  assemble  in  the 
great  kitchen  at  the  parsonage,  each  with  her  wheel, 
flax,  and  distaff,  there  to  spin  a  goodly  supply  of 
firm  linen  to  replenish  the  oaken  chests  where  the 
minister's  wife  kept  her  household  stuffs. 


44  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

On  a  charming  afternoon  in  midsummer  quite 
a  company  of  worthy  dames  were  seated  at  their 
work,  their  tongues  going  almost  as  fast  as  the 
merry  wrheels  over  which  they  bent.  The  kitchen 
was  long  and  low,  its  great  beams  overhead  exposed 
to  view.  From  them  were  suspended  strings  of 
dried  Indian  corn  and  sundry  herbe ;  the  latter  dis 
tilled  a  faint  spicy  odor  that  permeated  the  atmos 
phere  pleasantly.  Very  little  furniture  encumbered 
the  room,  with  the  exception  of  a  heavy  table  and 
some  high-backed  chairs  and  settles. 

Upon  the  mantel  in  tall  candlesticks  stood  candles 
made  of  pale-green  tallow,  the  compound  of  bay- 
berries,  gathered  by  the  wayside,  and  "  dipped  "  by 
the  economical  wife  of  the  minister.  The  windows 
were  open,  letting  in  a  cool,  refreshing  breeze  laden 
with  the  sweet  breath  of  cowslips,  clover,  and  newly 
cut  grass.  The  bees  hummed  noisily  as  they  flew 
by,  and  occasionally  the  strange,  wild  note  of  a 
forest  bird  mingled  with  the  call  of  the  robin  and 
the  blackbird.  The  floor  of  the  kitchen  was  of  clay, 
damp  and  cool. 

Mistress  Parris  sat  among  the  women,  plying  her 
needle  upon  some  homespun  garment,  now  and  then 
gazing  delightedly  upon  the  stout  runs  of  linen 


SIR    GRENVILLE    LAWSON.  45 

thread  that  were  gradually  accumulating  from  the 
industrious  energies  of  the  spinners.  This  texture, 
she  mentally  pictured,  would  eventually  take  the 
shape  of  good  sheets  to  fill  her  stout  chests,  and  add 
materially  to  her  wealth ;  for  linen  was  held  only 
second  in  value  to  silver. 

There  was  no  thought  of  idleness  among  these 
conscientious  women;  they  were  using  the  Lord's 
time,  which  was'  only  loaned  to  them  for  a  short 
space.  So  they  diligently  reeled,  carded,  and 
combed  the  flax. 

At  length  a  stern,  dark-browed  matron  laid  down 
her  work  for  an  instant,  and  looking  up,  addressed  a 
woman  seated  near  her,  who  had  made  a  deprecat-  \ 
ing  remark  in  reference  to  Mr.  Wentworth's  coming 
marriage. 

"Perchance,"  said  she  in  a  cold  voice,  "it  is  not 
for  me  to  question  the  motives  of  one  who  hath 
been  set  by  Providence  above  me ;  if  I  err,  I  pray 
thee,  pardon  me,  Mistress  Parris." 

"  Speak  on,  thou  hast  a  right;  I  question  it  not." 

"  They  say,"  continued  the  speaker,  "  the  judge 
doth  not  bring  great  credit  upon  the  colony  by  his 
betrothal,  or,  for  that  matter,  great  credit  upon  him 
self.  Why,  good  wives,"  she  cried,  her  voice  grow- 


46  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

ing  shriller  as  she  proceeded,  "  what  think  ye  of 
that  vain,  idle  minx  being  placed  above  us  in  the 
meeting-house?  Her  levity,  her  laughter,  and  her 
antics  are  a  scandal  to  the  edifice.  It  is  but  a  month 
or  more  come  yesterday  that  she  did  tickle  the  neck 
of  Goodman  Wells  with  a  mint-stick  ;  he,  poor  man, 
having  e'en  lost  himself  in  the  seventhly  of  the  ser 
mon,  was  asleep.  He  did  awake  with  a  start,  being 
confused,  thinking  a  spider  was  on  his  neck,  having 
spun  from  the  beams  aloft.  He  did  fall  forward, 
and  strike  his  head  with  violence,  so  much  so  that  a 
great  bump  did  appear  thereon  the  following  day." 

"  Ay,  that  is  so,"  echoed  a  chorus  of  voices. 

"  But,"  replied  Mistress  Parris,  "  that  was  before 
the  announcement ;  since  then  most  circumspect  has 
been  her  demeanor." 

"  I  wot  it  will  not  last,"  continued  the  dark-browed 
woman ;  "  she  knows  what  is  for  her  good.  Think 
ye  she  will  lose  this  great  honor  by  any  vicious  deeds 
at  this  late  day?  Not  she.  I  have  it  on  good  au 
thority  that  some  time  previous  Mr.  Wentworth 
contemplated  advising  Mr.  Parris  to  call  her  out  in 
meeting.  She  is  sufficiently  unruly  to  have  a  scat 
on  the  boys'  bench  and  have  the  good  stout  stick 


SIR    GRENVILLE    LAWSON.  47 

laid  across  her  shoulders.  In  faith  she  has  bewitched 
him." 

At  the  word  "  bewitched  "  Elizabeth  Hubbard, 
whose  head  had  been  bent  over  her  wheel,  raised  it 
and  looked  squarely  into  the  speaker's  face.  There 
was  a  mesmeric  influence  in  the  girl's  glance.  Eliz 
abeth  was  a  dark-skinned,  dark-eyed  young  woman, 
handsome  in  a  wild,  elfish  way,  with  a  heavy  mass 
of  hair  of  inky  hue  that  waved  about  her  temples  in 
tangled  confusion.  There  rested  an  expression  of 
alert  interest  upon  her  face,  the  well-traced  lines 
about  her  mouth  denoting  a  fierceness  of  disposition 
and  an  untamed,  headstrong  will.  Her  presence 
affected  the  beholder  with  a  weird,  incomprehensible 
fascination. 

"What  dost  thou  mean  by  'bewitched'?"  she 
asked. 

"Mean?"  echoed  Mistress  Parris.  "Why,  that 
her  blue  eyes  and  pretty  face  hath  cast  a  spell,  as 
thy  black  eyes  will  do  some  day,  Elizabeth." 

Elizabeth  turned  impatiently  to  her  wheel,  and 
did  not  reply. 

"  Thou  speakest  of  her  antics  at  the  meetings ; 
what  think  ye  all  of  her  lonely  wanderings  in  the 


48  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

forest?  Oft  hath  she  been  seen  on  the  edge  of  the 
great  woods  at  evening,  singing,  and  with  her  hands 
full  of  strange  plants  and  flowers." 

The  dame  who  thus  spoke  had  a  low,  intense 
voice.  The  rest  of  the  circle  gazed  toward  her 
where  she  sat  in  the  farther  end  of  the  long  room ; 
her  foot  was  upon  the  treadle,  her  head  bent  eagerly 
forward ;  she  held  aloft  in  her  hand  a  hank  of  linen 
thread.  The  women  drew  closer  together  as  though 
something  in  these  words  had  alarmed  them. 

"  What  doeth  she  there?  "  continued  the  vibrating 
tones.  "  It  were  more  to  her  credit  did  she  bide  at 
home,  assisting  with  the  farm  work." 

"  Ay,  thou  speakest  truly,"  said  Mistress  Parris. 
"  Still,  her  family  is  of  good  repute ;  none  better  or 
stauncher  church-members  have  we  than  David  and 
Martha  Holden.  She  is  but  a  child,  and  seeks  a 
child's  pleasures.  Why,  it  seems  but  yesterday  that 
little  Dorothy  Grey  ran  heedless  upon  the  village 
streets,  the  torment  of  her  good  aunt,  and  withal 
her  happiness ;  for  ye  must  confess  she  is  full  lov 
able." 

These  kindly  words  were  met  with  silence,  broken 
presently  by  the  sharp  voice  of  the  woman  in  the 
distant  corner. 


SIR    GRENVILLE    LAWSON.  49 

"  It  is  well  known  of  the  naughty  baggage  that 
she  doth  not  do  the  will  of  her  good  guardians. 
Little  cares  she  if  they  berate  her;  she  is  a  wild 
thing,  and,  I  fear  me,  the  learned  judge  hath  taken 
a  firebrand  into  his  heart.  It  is  beyond  my  poor 
wits  that  a  man  of  so  great  intelligence,  and  so  filled 
with  the  strength  won  by  prayer  and  a  godly  life, 
can  so  bemean  himself  as  to  choose  this  silly  child 
for  the  sake  of  a  fair  exterior." 

"  Mercy  on  us,  good  friends,"  cried  Mistress  Hodg 
son,  a  sprightly  matron  who  had  not  hitherto  spoken, 
"  ye  are  too  hard  ;  she  is  but  young.  Let  her  laugh 
while  she  can ;  let  her  gather  the  flowers.  The 
years  will  come  soon  enough  when  perchance  she 
cannot  laugh,  and  when  the  flowers  will  fade.  As 
for  the  meeting-house,  I  have  smiled  full  oft  myself 
at  the  hilarity  in  the  boys'  benches.  And  thou 
knowest  that  when  old  Goody  Farnham  called  out 
'  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  us  '  when  the  minister 
did  start  his  sermon  on  the  third  hour — she  being 
deaf,  and  having  slept,  thinking  it  time  to  re 
spond  in  the  psalm — it  was  hard  to  be  calm  and 
serious." 

A  slight  ripple  of  suppressed  humor  ruffled  the 
countenances  of  the  stern  matrons  at  this  reminder. 


50  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

It  fell  like  a  gleam  of  wintry  sunshine  upon  a  sad- 
colored  landscape. 

"  Thou  art  right,"  said  Mistress  Parris,  "  the  young 
should  laugh  betimes;  tears  will  furrow  their  cheeks 
and  make  yet  deeper  wrinkles  than  do  their  smiles. 
And  hark  ye,  charity  is  surely  a  godly  virtue,  and 
cloaks  the  follies  of  youth.  Methinks  ye  should 
consider  well  the  roistering,  rollicking  trooper,  who 
did  serve  an  ungodly  master,  and  who  has  left  to  his 
daughter  a  light  and  verily  a  foolish  nature." 

"  Thou  art  kindly  disposed,"  said  the  cheerful 
Mistress  Hodgson  ;  "  an  inheritance  like  Dorothy's 
makes  life  a  hard  battle  to  conquer.  They  do  say 
a  more  dancing,  singing,  light-minded  trooper  than 
William  Grey  never  followed  the  service  of  that 
'  Imp  of  Satan,'  the  wicked  Charles." 

"  I  find  not  fault  with  her  inheritance,"  said  Dor 
othy's  denunciator.  "  Yet  hearken  unto  me."  The 
woman  arose  from  her  wheel  and  came  forward 
amongst  them.  She  looked  searchingly  into  the 
intent  face  of  Elizabeth,  raised  expectantly  toward 
her.  "  From  the  dormer-window  of  my  garret 
chamber  I  have  at  the  dusk  of  evening  seen  Dorothy 
emerging  from  the  forest."  She  paused;  her  listen 
ers  looked  up  eagerly  from  their  work.  "  Not  far 


SIR    GRENVILLE    LAWSON.  51 

distant,  upon  a  rise  of  ground,  the  fading  sunlight 
on  her  wicked  face,  stood  Goody  Trueman.  Draw 
thine  own  inference.  I  say  naught ;  I  watch." 

This  announcement  was  received  in  a  peculiar 
manner  by  the  auditors.  They  did  not  speak,  but 
drew  their  chairs  closer  together,  looking  tremblingly 
and  affrighted  over  their  shoulders  toward  the  wide 
mouth  of  the  great  chimney. 

"  Did  she  vanish  into  air  as  thou  watched  ?  "  asked 
Mistress  Parris  in  an  anxious  tone. 

"  I  know  not;  I  dared  look  no  further  for  dread 
of  her  horrid  spell." 

The  women  worked  silently  and  steadily  for  some 
time  after  this.  Suddenly  the  cadence  of  a  low, 
humming  sound  resembling  the  sweet  notes  of  the 
meadow-lark  broke  upon  the  quiet  of  the  summer 
afternoon.  The  dames  lifted  their  heads  and  lis 
tened,  looking  toward  the  open  windows. 

Elizabeth  leaned  forward  over  her  wheel  and 
raised  her  finger.  " 'Tis  Dorothy,"  she  said;  "I 
know  her  voice.  She  sings  while  we  work." 

The  sound  of  a  light  step  was  heard  without  the 
kitchen  door.  The  latch  was  lifted  and  Dorothy 
stood  smiling  upon  the  threshold.  In  the  bodice  of 
her  gown  a  great  bunch  of  purple  clovers  nestled 


52  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

and  hung  their  honey-laden  heads.  She  held  her 
apron  in  one  hand,  and  over  its  hem  fell  great  masses 
of  wild- wood  ferns  and  columbine,  and  cool  green 
sprays  of  vines  and  moss.  The  other  hand  held 
close  to  her  ear  the  rim  of  a  beautiful  pink-tinted 
gea-shell. 

"  Dorothy,"  cried  the  minister's  wife,  looking  up 
reprovingly,  "where  hast  thou  been?  Methinks 
thy  Aunt  Martha  believed  thee  at  the  spinning. 
Where  is  thy  wheel,  child?" 

The  girl  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed  a  clear, 
ringing  laugh  of  girlish  merriment.  "  My  wheel, 
good  Mistress  Parris,  my  wheel,  I  judge,  is  rusting 
from  want  of  use.  In  these  summer  days  the  flax 
doth  stick  and  cling.  I  trow  I  like  not  spinning,  but 
I  will  tell  thee  all  where  I  have  been.  Surely  a 
little  diversion  should  be  welcome  after  this  laboring 
with  the  flax." 

She  paused  and  looked  around  mischievously 
upon  the  stern-browed  group  of  women,  who  re 
turned  no  answering  smile.  She  heeded  not  their 
coldness,  but  appeared  rather  to  enjoy  their  discom 
fort.  Coming  forward,  she  laid  her  hand  upon  the 
lathe  of  Elizabeth's  wheel ;  it  gave  a  loud  whirring 
sound  and  stopped  violently  in  the  spinning.  She 


SIR   GRENVILLE    LAWSON.  53 

laughed  loudly  as  the  flax  broke  with  a  snap,  her 
pretty,  teasing  face  glowing  with  merriment.  "  I 
am  glad  'tis  broke ;  now  thou  canst  not  work,  and 
be  a  reproach  to  me  in  my  idleness." 

"  I  will  tell  thy  aunt  of  thee,"  cried  Mistress  Par- 
ris,  not  relishing  the  loss  of  linen  and  time.  "  The 
years  bring  thee  no  sense  or  godliness,  Dorothy." 

"  I  fear  not  Aunt  Martha  overmuch ;  she  forgives 
and  forgets  my  misdeeds.  Why  not  tell  Mr.  Went- 
worth  ?  Yet,  listen,  scold  me  no  more ;  I  will  tell 
thee  whither  I  have  been  whilst  thou  hast  worked." 

The  group  looked  up  sternly  into  the  laughing, 
roguish  eyes,  and  listened,  partly  unwilling,  yet 
partly  won  by  her  sweetness. 

"  I  have  wandered  in  the  forest,  where  all  was 
cool  and  quiet,  and  where  the  bird  and  butterfly  did 
bear  me  joyous  company.  Thence  over  the  fields 
and  meadows  have  I  walked,  e'en  down  to  the  edge 
of  the  sea.  I  did  rest  upon  the  sand  and  watch  the 
little  waves  come  up  unto  my  feet,  back  and  forth, 
back  and  forth,  tiny,  blue,  lapping  waves,  and  they 
did  sing  a  right  merry  song  to  me.  Being  warm 
and  tired,  I  fell  asleep  beneath  the  shelter  of  a  rock, 
and  I  did  dream  a  bright  dream."  She  paused;  a 
dimness  gathered  in  her  eyes.  "A  dream  of  a  home 


54  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

far  away,  beyond  the  seas,  a  home  among  my  father's 
people.  When  I  awoke  I  was  still  in  this  cold  land, 
where  they  blame  me  when  I  laugh  and  sing.  Ah, 
that  I  might  have  dreamed  longer!" 

"  Hush,  Dorothy,  it  is  not  grateful  for  thee  to 
pine,"  interrupted  Mistress  Hodgson;  "  thou  hast 
been  snatched  from  the  fire  of  wickedness  in  that 
benighted  land.  With  thy  temperament,  thou 
wouldst  most  assuredly  have  fed  the  blaze  which 
that  degenerate  people  have  built  to  their  own  un 
doing." 

"  Yet  let  me  tell  thee,"  cried  Dorothy,  unheeding 
this  reproof,  "  something  that  will  make  thee  all  put 
thy  wheels  against  the  wall  and  go  with  me." 

"What  dost  thou  mean,  Dorothy?  What  hast 
thou  to  tell?"  asked  Elizabeth  quickly. 

"  Now  hold  thy  patience,  Elizabeth.  When  I  did 
awake  from  my  dream  I  did  start  and  sit  upright ; 
mine  eyes  were  dim  at  first,  but  presently  far  away 
against  the  sky,  full  as  far  as  my  vision  could  reach, 
I  did  behold  a  great  ship.  Its  sails  were  unfurled 
like  the  wings  of  a  spirit,  and  its  bows  were  turned 
toward  me." 

The  women  all  arose  quickly,  and  gazed  excitedly 
toward  the  speaking  girl. 


SIR    GRENVILLE    LAWSON.  55 

"  And  I  did  speak  aloud,  and  say,  '  'Tis  the  good 
ship  "  Hope,"  so  long  expected.  It  is  filled  with 
new  souls  for  the  colony,  and  much  merchandise.' 
I  watched  it  growing  larger  and  larger,  and  coming 
nearer  and  nearer ;  in  my  excitement  I  saw  naught 
else ;  it  seemed  to  fill  the  whole  space  between  sky 
and  sea." 

"  Sayst  thou  truly,  Dorothy?"  cried  the  excited 
women. 

"  Ay,  truly,  and  I  did  place  this  sea-shell  against 
mine  ear,  and  it  did  speak  to  me  of  the  sea  and  the 
ships.  And  it  did  whisper  at  first  but  faintly,  then 
in  a  low  and  sadder  voice,  '  Dorothy,  yonder  ship 
brings  some  one  to  thee ;  some  one  looks  thy  way.' 
.  Think  ye,  Mistress  Parris,  it  can  be  one  of  my  father's 
people?  For  of  a  truth  I  did  hear  the  shell  say, 
'  Dorothy,  Dorothy,  I  am  coming  to  thee.'  ' 

"  Thou  art  a  fanciful  child ;  none  can  speak  to 
thee  that  hath  not  life.  'Tis  thine  idleness,  my  child, 
that  aileth  thee ;  far  better  were  it  that  no  tidings 
of  thy  father's  people  ever  reached  thine  ears.  Come, 
let  us  hasten  to  the  shore  and  bid  a  right  welcome 
cheer  to  the  emigrants.  They  have  good  winds  to 
their  favor,  and  soon,  if  Dorothy  sayeth  truly,  will 
be  beyond  the  bar.  Waste  no  time ;  hasten  to  the 


56  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

harbor."  She  turned  eagerly  to  the  women,  who 
had  already  commenced  to  place  their  wheels  against 
the  wall. 

No  news  of  such  great  and  welcome  import  ever 
greeted  the  ears  of  the  early  settlers  as  that  announc 
ing  the  arrival  of  a  ship  from  the  fair,  far-off  land  of 
England.  It  meant  a  wider  interest ;  it  meant  news 
from  absent  ones ;  it  meant  gifts  and  added  com 
forts  ;  it  meant  an  increase  in  the  settlement,  also  a 
knowledge  of  the  political  situation  of  the  mother- 
country.  In  short,  it  meant  every  joy  desirable  to 
the  good  people  of  two  hundred  years  ago. 

So  the  good  wives  gathered  on  the  shore  to  bid 
the  brave  ship  welcome.  They  did  not  hurrah  and 
cheer,  as  we  would  of  a  later  date ;  they  stood  sober 
and  quiet,  uttering  little  ejaculations  of  thankfulness 
to  God  for  His  great  mercies.  The  good  ship 
"  Hope  "  came  to  anchor,  the  emigrants  landed,  and 
great  was  the  sober  rejoicing. 

Alden  Wentworth  stood  by  Dorothy's  side  and 
gazed  down  upon  her  sparkling  face,  a  look  of  tender 
yearning  in  his  deep-set,  solemn  eyes.  He  con 
stantly  experienced,  when  with  her,  an  unsatisfied 
longing,  that,  owing  to  his  own  conservativeness, 
gave  little  promise  of  gathering  a  plentiful  harvest 


SIR    GRENVILLE    LAWSON.  57 

from  that  unawakened  nature,  yet  hovering  upon 
the  narrow  borderland  between  childhood  and 
womanhood. 

"Thou  art  glad,  Dorothy,"  he  said,  "to  see  the 
landing?  " 

"Ay,  truly,"  she  answered;  "  I  wot  it  brings  me 
some  one  from  England.  I  trust  it  brings  some  one 
of  my  father's  kin." 

He  started  at  these  words.  "  Thy  father's  kin!" 
he  echoed.  "And  art  thou  not  content,  that  thou 
shouldst  seek  the  society  of  those  unhallowed 
ones?  " 

She  drew  away  from  him ;  he  frightened  her,  and 
she  perceptibly  shrank  from  him. 

"They  are  of  my  father's  people,"  she  explained. 
"  I  know  not  that  they  are  wicked  because  they 
differ  from  us." 

As  she  thus  spoke  a  gorgeous  apparition  stepped 
from  the  gang-plank  to  the  shore.  A  murmur  of 
disapprobation  ran  through  the  assembled  throng. 
And,  indeed,  most  appalling  must  it  have  been  to 
the  sober-minded,  solemn  Puritans  to  thus  behold 
this  splendidly  attired  personage,  a  full-fledged  cav 
alier,  their  hatred  and  abomination. 

The  crimson  velvet  breeches,  with  ruffles  of  lace 


58  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

hanging  full  below  the  knee ;  the  russet-leather  top- 
boots  ;  the  slashed  satin  coat,  with  soft  puffings  of 
mull  between  the  slashes ;  the  great  hat  with  its 
nodding  plumes  held  in  place  by  a  jeweled  buckle ; 
the  embroidered  gloves ;  and  above  all,  the  saucy, 
smiling,  handsome  face  of  a  gay  follower  of  a  cor 
rupt  court  and  a  licentious  monarch.  He  looked 
upon  the  solemn  assemblage  with  an  amused  smile ; 
an  expression  of  half-haughty  condescension  curved 
his  short  upper  lip,  which  sported  a  blond  curled 
mustache. 

He  was  alone,  and  appeared  to  know  no  one.  He 
passed  through  the  crowd,  which  fell  away  from  him 
as  from  one  who  was  contaminated,  and  who  might 
spread  some  deadly  disease,  moral,  at  least,  if  not 
physical. 

Dorothy  gazed  openly  upon  him,  her  blue  eyes 
wide  and  staring  with  unconcealed  admiration  for 
the  glitter  and  glimmer  of  the  stranger's  magnifi 
cence. 

He  saw  her,  and  started  perceptibly,  his  step 
halting  slightly,  and  looked  boldly  upon  that  sweet 
face,  yet  filled  with  but  the  glow  of  curious,  innocent 
childhood.  Curious  she  was,  indeed,  to  see  some 


SIR    GRENVILLE    LAWSON.  59 

one  from  the  gay  life  of  that  land  of  which  she 
dreamed  and  thought  continually.  Like  a  child 
whom  the  first  glimpse  of  some  unsuspected  beauty 
has  completely  mastered,  she  gave  a  little  gasp  of 
delight,  and  bent  eagerly  forward.  He  passed  on, 
leaving  her  blushing  deeply  at  his  bold  glance  and 
looking  down. 

Alden  Wentworth  turned  to  a  neighbor  standing 
near,  and  said,  "  Hast  heard  whom  yonder  bird  of 
bright  plumage  may  be?  May  the  Lord  preserve 
us  from  all  such." 

"  They  do  say  he  is  Sir  Grenville  Lawson.  The 
account  he  gave  of  himself  on  shipboard  is  this.  At 
least  my  cousin  Timothy  from  Harrow,  who  is  among 
the  newly  arrived,  has  so  informed  me.  He  was  a 
cavalier  at  the  court  of  Charles.  Since  the  accession 
of  William  and  Mary  and  the  flight  of  James  he  hath 
been  indiscreet,  and  for  political  reasons  seeks  an 
asylum  in  the  New  World  till  the  storm  blows  past. 
Bestrew  me,  but  he  is  a  merry  gallant,  if  one  can 
read  a  countenance  aright." 

Alden  Wentworth  turned  quickly  toward  Doro 
thy  ;  she  was  looking  after  the  departing  stranger. 

"  Look  not  his  way,  Dorothy,"  he  said.     "  Satan 


60  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

hath  many  guises  for  his  followers,  and  many  tricks 
to  catch  the  hearts  of  the  unwary  ;  this  man  belongs 
to  the  company  of  the  lost,  misguided  ones." 

Dorothy  did  not  reply.  She  felt  a  coldness  and 
depression  coming  over  her  as  the  bright  presence 
of  the  stranger  was  withdrawn,  even  as  a  thick  sea- 
mist  shuts  out  the  beauty  of  the  land.  When  she 
spoke  her  voice  was  low  and  sad. 

"  The  good  ship  '  Hope  '  hath  brought  no  one  to 
me.  I  did  so  earnestly  believe  it  would.  In  faith, 
my  father's  people  have  forgotten  me." 

Alden  turned  almost  fiercely  upon  her.  It  was 
as  if  the  true  nature  of  the  man  endeavored  to  out 
step  the  bounds  of  austerity,  which  like  bands  of 
steel  fettered  his  life  of  narrow  conventionality.  The 
aching  and  jealous  longing  of  his  heart  at  length 
found  utterance. 

"  What  dost  thou  desire,  Dorothy,  from  another 
land  than  this?  Thy  desire  should  be  here,  in  this 
thy  home.  Art  thou  not  mine?  Am  I  not  thine?  " 

She  drew  away  from  him ;  he  saw  the  motion 
with  a  cold  sinking  at  his  heart. 

"  Ay,"  she  answered  wearily,  "  thou  hast  my 
promise.  I  am  thine — and  yet — and  yet " 

"  Yet  what?  "  he  demanded  quickly. 


SIR    GRENVILLE    LAWSON.  6 1 

"  I  would  I  were  more  worthy  of  thee  and  that 
thou  didst  understand  me  better." 

The  people  were  now  dispersing  rapidly,  and  but 
few  stragglers  remained  upon  the  shore.  He  leaned 
over  her ;  when  he  spoke  a  depth  of  passion  was  in 
his  words  and  tone. 

"  Thou  art  worthy,  thou  art !  I  am  the  culprit — 
God  forgive  me!"  He  made  a  frantic  gesture  with 
his  hands  as  he  spoke.  "  I  seek  to  take  from  thee 
thy  life,  thy  joyous  youth;  to  steal  the  perfume 
from  the  flower  ere  yet  its  petals  have  unfolded ;  to 
crush  thee  into  silence  ;  to  still  thy  song.  And  why  ? 
That  I  might  make  thee  what  I  desire ;  to  mold 
thee  to  a  form  that  will  rob  thee  of  thy  greatest 
charm.  Forgive  my  selfishness.  Thou  art  God's 
handiwork — forgive  me!" 

The  intense  feeling  of  the  man  appalled  her.  The 
mingling  of  this  abandon  of  passion  with  his  exterior 
coldness  was  beyond  her  comprehension.  She  re 
leased  herself  from  his  clinging  clasp. 

"  I  fear  thee,"  she  murmured,  "  I  fear  thee!" 

"  No,  no,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "  say  not  those  words. 
Thou  canst  not  know,  Dorothy,  what  thou  art  to  me. 
I  live  in  thee!"  She  drew  closer  to  him  again,  and 
looked  up  into  his  face  as  a  little  child  seeking  for- 


62  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

giveness,  yet  hardly  comprehending  in  what  it  has 
offended. 

"  I  am  grieved  if  I  have  pained  thee,"  she  said 
nervously.  "  I  will  endeavor  to  be  to  thee  all  that 
thou  wouldst  have  me.  Alden,  thou  wilt  pardon 
me  ?  I  promise  thee  I  will  do  better  from  this 
time  on." 


CHAPTER    IV. 

DOROTHY'S  TEMPTATION. 

A  WEEK  or  more  had  elapsed  since  the  landing 
of  the  emigrant  ship  "  Hope."  Dorothy  and  Went- 
worth  were  seated  side  by  side  in  the  porch  of  the 
farmhouse.  It  was  evening,  and  the  long  shadows 
were  creeping  stealthily  over  the  lonely  fields,  noise 
less  specters  mourning  for  the  death  of  day.  These 
forerunners  of  the  darkness,  with  ghost-like  tread, 
spread  themselves  upon  the  land,  clothing  it  in  a 
subdued,  mysterious  light.  The  heavily  foliaged 
trees  stood  out  in  one  unbroken  line  of  blackness 
against  the  sky,  from  which  the  after-glow  was 
rapidly  fading,  leaving  level  streaks  of  palest  red  and 
purple  in  its  wake. 

The  sounds  of  night  insects,  mingling  with  the 
croaking  of  frogs  and  the  hoot  of  the  owl,  broke 
upon  the  stillness  with  startling  intensity.  The 
sweet  scents  of  the  shrubs,  added  to  the  spicy  odor 
of  the  ten-weeks  stock  that  grew  near  the  gate,  rose 
upon  the  air  strong  and  penetrating. 

63 


64  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

The  couple  in  the  doorway  had  not  spoken  for 
some  minutes.  Wentworth  was  thinking  deeply, 
and  Dorothy's  eyes  were  seeking  to  pierce  the  dark 
ness  ;  the  solemnity  of  the  hour  depressed  her  some 
what,  her  sensitive  organization  being  particularly 
susceptible  to  atmospheric  influences.  She  gazed 
intently  before  her,  toward  the  forest,  as  though  loth 
to  lose  a  glimmer  of  the  fast  decreasing  twilight  as 
it  faded  behind  the  great  expanse  of  wooded  coun 
try  that  towered  in  the  west. 

Presently  Alden  leaned  toward  his  betrothed,  and 
taking  her  hand,  said  in  rather  a  strained,  unnatural 
voice :  "  Thou  knowest  that  the  summer  is  rapidly 
passing  by,  that  the  days  are  shortening.  When  the 
autumn  is  here,  Dorothy,  I  would  that  thou  shouldst 
come  to  me.  I  have  oft  endeavored  to  speak  of 
this,  and  have  ever  desisted  for  fear  of  alarming  thee  ; 
now  I  can  wait  no  longer — I  must  speak.  What 
dost  thou  think,  Dorothy?" 

Dorothy  arose  hurriedly  from  her  seat,  and  going  to 
the  front  of  the  porch  gazed  silently  over  the  garden 
to  the  road  beyond.  Then  she  turned  and  came  to 
ward  Wentworth,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  his  shoul 
der.  He  looked  up  expectantly,  and  even  in  the  dim 
ness  he  noticed  that  her  face  shone  with  a  pale  light. 


DOROTHY'S  TEMPTATION.  65 

"  Alden,"  she  said  softly,  and  in  her  sweet  voice 
was  a  cadence  of  deepest  sadness,  "  I  told  thee  once 
that  I  did  not  love  thee  as  thou  wouldst  have  me. 
I  do  respect  thee  and  give  thee  all  honor.  I  am 
proud  that  thou  hast  chosen  me.  Yet  methinks 
that  in  my  being  is  a  font  of  affection  that  is  not 
thine." 

"  Not  mine !  "  he  said  hurriedly.  "  Dost  thou  then 
love  another?  Hast  thou  deceived  me?" 

"  No,  no,  not  so ;  I  love  none  other.  I  wish  to 
be  upright  and  honest  with  thee,  that  is  all.  Art 
thou  content,  art  thou  fully  satisfied  to  take  me  as  I 
am  ?  Perchance  when  I  am  older  and  wiser  I  shall 
learn  to  love  thee  as  thou  desirest,  and  my  rebellious 
will  and  love  of  mirth  time  may  yet  subdue." 

The  child — for  child  she  was  as  yet  in  years  and 
experience — did  not  comprehend  the  nearness  of  the 
precipice  upon  which  her  feet  were  faltering.  She 
simply  felt  that  she  owed  Wentworth  more  than  she 
could  give.  If  he  was  satisfied,  however,  with  part 
payment,  her  responsibility  ceased ;  she  had  done 
all  that  was  required  of  her,  and  the  link  that  united 
her  to  him  became  strong  enough  for  her  conscience. 

"  Thou  wilt  learn  to  love  me,  my  beloved ;  thou 
wilt,"  he  said  eagerly.  "  I  am  fully  content  with 


66  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

thee;  I  would  not  have  thee  other  than  thou  art. 
Did  I  force  thy  true  nature  into  another  channel 
then  I  should  indeed  distort  the  real  Dorothy,  and 
in  its  stead  find,  no  doubt,  only  a  mirthless  .echo." 
He  kissed  her,  and  she  submitted  passively. 

The  wedding-day  was  set  for  early  October. 
Wentworth  would  then  leave  the  old  manse,  where 
he  had  previously  resided  with  his  superior,  Mr. 
Parris,  and  go  into  a  house  of  his  own.  A  rather 
peculiar  custom  then  prevailed,  in  direct  contrast  to 
the  rule  of  our  time  at  least.  A  man  was  allowed 
no  independence  whatever  until  after  his  marriage. 
He  was  obliged  to  submit  in  all  particulars  to  the 
order  of  the  court ;  he  might  not  even  live  alone, 
but  was  forced  to  reside  with  some  family,  becoming 
a  member  of  the  household. 

In  fact,  it  is  highly  probable  that  these  restrictions 
often  forced  the  poor  man  into  matrimony.  The 
policy  of  the  shrewd  old  Pilgrim  Fathers  was  not  so 
bad  a  thing  after  all ;  a  householder  certainly  being 
a  more  influential  personage  in  many  particulars 
than  a  bachelor. 

There  was  one  man  in  the  olden  time  who  was 
not  driven  into  marriage  by  the  stern  decree  of  the 
Puritan  code.  Wentworth,  with  the  heavy  odds 


DOROTHY'S  TEMPTATION.  67 

against  him  of  Dorothy's  lukewarmness,  worked, 
planned,  and  lived  for  the  bright  hopes  of  the 
future.  He  silenced  the  doubts  that  arose  within 
him,  crushing  the  slightest  tendency  to  a  possible 
disastrous  termination  of  his  desires,  bidding  the 
small  voice  be  still  that  warned  him  of  his  unwise 
course. 

•  The  morning  following  the  conversation  in  the 
farmhouse  porch,  Dorothy  in  her  sober  gown,  bright 
ened  somewhat  by  a  bodice  of  blue  embroidered 
with  silk  thread,  her  dun-colored  cape  of  "tiffany" 
across  her  shoulders,  her  little  Puritan  cap  upon  her 
head,  took  her  way  over  the  newly  mown  fields  to 
the  meeting-house.  She  held  her  psalm-book  in 
her  hand,  and  as  she  walked  gazed  demurely  down 
at  the  ground,  endeavoring  to  force  her  tripping 
steps  into  a  mincing,  sober  gait,  as  became  a  Puritan 
maiden  on  her  way  to  meeting. 

She  was  thinking  of  many  things  ;  among  others, 
that  it  would  not  be  very  long  now  before  she  would 
be  Dorothy  Wentworth.  All  would  be  so  changed. 
She  and  Alden  would  walk  side  by  side  to  meeting, 
and  she  would  sit  in  one  of  the  uppermost  seats,  the 
large  square  pew  on  the  side  of  the  pulpit,  which 
faced  the  "  foreseat,"  as  it  was  called — the  seat  of 


68  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

greatest  honor,  kept  sacred  for  the  dignitaries  of  the 
colony. 

This  seat  was  raised  some  inches  above  the  floor, 
and  poor  Dorothy  knew  that  in  this  exalted  position 
she  should  never  dare  smile  during  the  sermon  or 
the  most  lengthy  prayer;  it  would  scandalize  the 
deacons,  whose  stern  eyes  she  knew  would  follow 
her  every  motion. 

Her  mouth  looked  pensive  and  there  was  a  listless 
droop  in  the  willowy  figure.  She  met  many  neigh 
bors  on  her  way,  who  greeted  her  with  a  staid  in 
clination  of  the  head.  She  walked  behind  her  aunt 
and  uncle,  who  stalked  along  silently  in  best  attire, 
their  faces  drawn  down  into  appropriate  gravity  for 
the  service  of  the  day. 

On  Sunday  morning  in  New  England  in  the  long 
ago  those  whose  homes  were  near  the  church  edifice 
always  walked  reverently  and  slowly  along  the  grass- 
grown  streets  to  service.  Those  who  lived  at  a  dis 
tance  rose  early,  sometimes  with  the  sun ;  they  sad 
dled  their  horses,  and  with  a  pillion  strapped  on 
behind  each  saddle  for  wife  or  daughter  they  rode 
across  the  fields,  or  took  the  narrow  bridle  paths 
through  the  thick  woods  to  church.  No  storms,  no 
hardships  ever  interfered  with  this,  their  first  duty. 


DOROTHY'S  TEMPTATION.  69 

Many  curious  eyes  followed  Dorothy's  winsome, 
sober  face  as  she  entered  the  building  and  seated 
herself  sedately  by  her  aunt.  Her  uncle  joined  the 
men  on  the  other  side,  that  being  the  accepted 
custom. 

Dorothy  experienced  a  peculiar  sensation  of  ela 
tion,  surely  pardonable,  that  after  all  she  had  carried 
off  the  prize  without  so  much  as  preparing  a  single 
weapon  of  warfare.  This  thought  lent  a  slight  dig 
nity  to  her  youthful  bearing. 

Presently  the  minister  and  deacons  entered.  Dor 
othy  flushed  slightly  as  she  encountered  a  grave, 
kind  glance  from  Alden  Wentworth.  The  service 
commenced  after  seating  the  meeting,  which  pro 
ceeding  took  much  time.  Though  the  Puritans  dis 
approved  of  ceremonies  and  forms,  yet,  with  praise 
worthy  inconsistency,  each  individual  was  assigned 
a  place  in  the  church  according  to  his  position  of 
rank  or  importance,  and  a  high  seat  in  the  synagogue 
was  a  boon  earnestly  desired. 

One  can  see  the  picture  distinctly,  descending  like 
a  pale  ghost  through  the  mist  of  many  generations, 
a  sad-colored  ghost  indeed :  the  pkin  whitewashed 
walls  of  the  meeting-house  reflecting  the  glare  of 
the  sun  from  the  staring,  uncurtained  windows ;  the 


70  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

rows  of  sober-faced,  sedate  men  and  women,  upon 
whose  countenances  were  plainly  marked  the  traces 
of  their  mournful  existences ;  the  benches  of  unruly, 
riotous  boys,  belabored  now  and  then  by  raps  from 
the  stick  of  the  tithing-man,  that  fussy  personage 
who  flittered  here  and  there  as  occasion  required,  no 
doubt  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  changing  his  posi 
tion  as  often  as  possible ;  the  monotonous  droning 
of  the  psalms ;  the  spiders  spinning  in  the  rough- 
hewn  beams  aloft ;  the  nodding,  weary  little  chil 
dren,  seated  on  their"  hard  hassocks ;  without  the 
church  the  sound  of  many  birds  and  insects,  and  the 
distant  swash  of  the  waters  on  the  shores  of  the  har 
bor.  There  is  nothing  cheerful  in  this  picture.  We 
surely  have  the  best  of  it  in  the  nineteenth  century. 
The  sun  fell  upon  Dorothy's  bright  face  as  she 
sang  in  her  sweet  tones  the  quaint  old  hymns,  the 
words  of  which  ran  into  each  other  in  a  most  puz 
zling  manner,  the  meaning  as  abstruse  as  the  tunes 
were  grating.  Still  it  was  singing,  and  Dorothy 
greatly  enjoyed  it.  In  her  absorption  she  was  not 
conscious  of  a  step  that  paused  hesitatingly  near  her 
and  then  proceeded.  Presently  she  became  aware 
of  a  bright  red  glow  upon  the  floor  of  the  aisle — a 
glow  that  appeared  to  creep,  like  some  living  thing, 


DOROTHY'S  TEMPTATION.  71 

along  the  floor.  She  turned  quickly,  almost  drop 
ping  her  psalm-book,  and  looked  into  the  face  of  Sir 
Grenville  Lawson,  who  stood  but  a  few  feet  from 
her  in  the  center  of  the  aisle.  The  scarlet  gleam 
upon  the  floor  was  caused  by  the  sun  reflecting  the 
rich  hue  of  his  satin  cloak.  He  gave  her  a  glance 
keen  and  penetrating,  then  turned  abruptly  and  took 
a  seat  nearly  opposite  her  among  the  men. 

Dorothy  had  seen  Sir  Grenville  thrice  since  he 
came  to  Salem.  Twice  had  she  passed  him  on  the 
village  street,  but  had  not  then  raised  her  eyes  to 
gaze  upon  him.  Had  not  Alden  said  he  was  a 
degenerate  sinner?  Once  again  near  the  forest, 
where,  the  path  being  narrow,  he  stepped  into  the 
brambles  that  grew  on  the  side  to  give  her  room  to 
pass.  He  had  doffed  his  hat,  and  with  bold  glance 
and  courtly  bow  had  bid  her  proceed.  She  had 
smiled  shyly  into  his  handsome  face,  blushed,  and 
passed  by,  conscious  that  he  looked  after  her,  and 
when  she  reached  a  safe  distance  she  herself  looked 
back  and  saw  him  standing  watching  her. 

The  psalm-book  trembled  in  her  hand,  her  voice 
ceased  singing  abruptly,  and  she  watched  him  with 
covert  admiration  from  under  her  long  lashes.  From 
admiration  her  thoughts  drifted  into  interest.  In 


72  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

Dorothy's  composition  reverence  certainly  held  a 
small  part  as  yet.  Any  subject  to  occupy  her 
thoughts  during  these  wretched,  weary  hours  was 
seized  upon  with  avidity. 

She  fancied  herself  the  center  of  some  happy,  im 
possible  situation.  Her  mind  soared  far  away  from 
the  monotonous  voice  of  Mr.  Parris,  as  he  proceeded 
laboriously  to  expound  his  doctrines  in  sundry 
dreary,  intricate  passages,  filled  with  doleful  fore 
bodings  of  everlasting  damnation,  to  his  grave,  re 
spectful  flock.  She  did  not  see  the  little  meeting 
house,  nor  the  hearers,  nor  the  spiders  spinning, 
nor  the  fussy  tithing-man.  Her  imagination  painted 
a  much  more  alluring  picture.  She  saw  instead  a 
beautiful  home  far  away  over  the  seas,  in  that 
pleasant  land  of  England.  She  saw  the  k'ing  and 
queen,  the  splendors  of  the  court,  and  she  triumphant 
amidst  it  all ;  and  by  her  side,  not  Alden,  the  staid 
Puritan  judge,  in  his  black  attire  and  with  his  dreary 
views  of  living ;  instead,  a  gay  and  knightly  form 
in  satin,  lace,  and  jewels.  She  laughed,  sang,  and 
danced,  and  acted  out  her  nature.  Poor  little  simple 
Dorothy  dreamed  and  sang  mechanically,  absorbed 
in  the  airy  fabrics  of  her  brain. 

The  long,  tedious  service  at  last  drew  to  a  close ; 


DOROTHY'S  TEMPTATION.  73 

the  pious  members  rose,  much  elated  that  Mr.  Parris 
had  been  able  to  preach  two  hours  and  twenty  min 
utes  on  the  ever- popular  subject  of  the  terrible  pun 
ishment  of  sin  by  fire  and  brimstone. 

Dorothy  came  out  into  the  aisle,  and  Sir  Grenville 
came  from  his  place  opposite,  fate  pointing  with 
mocking  finger  at  the  pair  as  side  by  side  they 
walked  forth  into  the  sunshine  of  that  perfect  Sab 
bath  morning. 

Mr.  Parris  and  Wentworth,  with  the  rest  of  the 
deacons,  stood  in  the  church  door  to  greet  the  parish 
ioners  as  they  came  forth,  shaking  hands,  and  asking 
sundry  questions  of  interest,  principally  regarding 
domestic  matters. 

As  Dorothy  advanced,  the  glow  of  Sir  Grenville's 
scarlet  cloak  seemed  enveloping  her  sober-tinted 
gown  in  ruddy  light.  It  touched  her  hair,  her  face, 
and  thence  wandered  down  upon  her  garments. 
Thus  Alden  saw  her  as  she  came  out  into  the  day 
light,  and  a  jealous  rage  arose  within  him,  a  spark 
of  anger  crept  into  his  eyes.  This  nearness  of  his 
chosen  one  to  this  abomination  of  wickedness  ap 
peared  to  him  like  desecration. 

Sir  Grenville  bowed  and  passed  back  of  her,  hesi 
tating  a  moment  as  if  intending  to  speak.  He  re- 


74  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

ceived  no  encouragement,  however,  from  the  black- 
browed  clergyman  or  the  grave  deacons,  who  stood 
cold  and  erect.  He  smiled  and  hastened  by,  going 
alone  up  the  village  street. 

The  summer  days  passed  rapidly,  and  beautiful 
September  beamed  with  kindly  smiles  that  held 
within  their  radiance  some  of  the  warmth  of  the 
departed  season.  The  time  of  the  cutting  of  wheat, 
the  harvesting  of  apples,  the  gathering  of  nuts  had 
come,  with  its  added  burden  of  work  to  the  little 
town. 

Martha  was  very  industriously  planning  and  spin 
ning  for  the  bride.  Great  preparations  were  making 
in  the  farmhouse.  Dorothy  grew  quiet  and  morose, 
and  expressed  little  interest  in  the  proceedings,  tak 
ing  no  part  in  the  weaving.  She  went  seldom  to 
the  new  house  now  building  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
village,  the  erection  of  which  Wentworth  watched 
with  pride  and  interest. 

Dorothy's  aunt  did  not  chide  her,  though  inwardly 
she  was  much  disturbed.  If  Alden  was  satisfied, 
she  argued,  why  should  she  complain?  It  was  for 
him  to  speak,  not  her. 

It  was  now  the  2Oth  of  September,  but  three 
weeks  before  the  wedding-day.  Dorothy  was  nerv- 


DOROTHY'S  TEMPTATION.  75 

cms  and  restless.  The  chain  which  she  had  at  first 
been  willing  to  assume  now  proved  unbearably  irk 
some.  Each  day,  as  it  brought  her  nearer  to  that 
new  position,  brought  with  it  dread.  She  betook 
herself  one  afternoon  to  her  favorite  nook  in  the 
forest,  seeking  a  moss-covered  tree-trunk  that  grew 
near  a  rippling  stream,  too  remote  from  the  confines 
of  the  woods  for  danger  of  interruption.  It  was  a 
densely  shaded  spot,  cool,  damp,  and  still.  Nature's 
sweet  companionship  soothed  her  into  rest.  Here 
she  reposed  and  watched  the  dancing  brook,  address 
ing  it  in  tones  of  tender  endearment  as  it  hurried  on 
its  way.  The  forest  gloom  was  deep  around  her ;  a 
few  stray  gleams  of  sunshine  fell  through  the  heavy 
foliage,  though  scarce  illuminating  the  somber  sur 
roundings,  and  causing  the  darkness  to  seem  more 
dark  where  they  did  not  descend. 

As  she  leaned  back  against  the  tree  an  inde 
finable  sensation  crept  over  her,  the  consciousness 
of  another's  presence.  Terrified  at  the  thought  of 
the  possible  proximity  of  some  supernatural  agency, 
she  started  from  her  seat,  intending  to  turn  her  steps 
homeward. 

As  she  did  so,  a  man  stepped  out  from  the  gloom 
of  the  overhanging  shrubs  and  vines.  He  stood 


76  DOROTHY    Till-:    1'1'KITAX. 

quietly  an  instant,  the  straggling  sunbeams  falling 
upon  the  jewel  in  his  hat,  thence  down  upon  his  rich 
apparel.  She  took  a  few  steps  forward,  blushing 
deeply,  her  breath  coming  quickly.  Like  a  timid 
woodland  fawn  uncertain  of  the  good  intentions  of 
its  hunter,  she  hesitated,  and  receded  a  few  steps. 
Her  timidity  was  exquisite  in  its  naturalness. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,"  said  the  cavalier,  advancing. 
"  I  have  watched  for  you  this  many  a  day."  He 
did  not  use  the  quaint  tJicc  and  tJiou  of  the  Puritans. 
"  I  have  with  patience  discovered  where  you  make 
your  haunts.  In  yonder  vile  town,  where  they  dread 
lest  I  breed  a  pestilence  by  my  presence,  I  have 
sought  and  gained  information.  I  know  much  of 
your  history." 

She  came  nearer  to  him,  watching  him  eagerly. 
"  Know  much  of  my  history!"  she  echoed. 

"  Ay,  indeed,"  he  said. 

"  Then  tell  me  ;  I  long  to  hear,"  she  said  earnestly. 

"  Your  father,  Trooper  Grey,  was  known  to  me 
from  stories  heard  at  court.  He  was  a  well-known 
protege  of  Charles."  Here  the  cavalier  paused,  as 
if  amused  at  some  recollection  which  the  uttering 
of  this  name  aroused.  He  then  continued  more 
earnestly :  "  I  feel  some  sympathy  for  his  daughter, 


DOROTHY'S  TEMPTATION.  77 

compelled  to  a  living  death  among  this  stiffnecked 
people.  "  Your  father  angered  the  king  when  he 
married  your  mother,  the  Puritan,  and  indeed  his 
marriage  was  a  mystery,  for  a  better  mimic  of  these 
worthy  saints  never  pleased  a  merrier  monarch.  Ah 
well,  Cupid  takes  his  revenge  at  times."  He  ad 
vanced  nearer  and  took  her  hand,  which  she  held  out 
tremblingly  before  her.  "  Be  not  afraid ;  I  would 
not  harm  a  hair  of  that  lovely  head." 

"Thou" — she  gasped — "  thou  art  Sir  Grenville 
Lawson,  the  courtier.  What  seekst  thou  of  me,  the 
Puritan?  Sayest  thou  truly  thou  hast  heard  of  my 
father?  It  is  no  jest,  no  prank  that  thou  wouldst 
play?  " 

"  Truth  is  in  my  words,"  he  answered.  Her  blue 
eyes  shone  with  excitement.  "  I  seek  to  offer  com 
fort,"  he  continued.  "  I  can  read  a  riddle:  I  know 
the  story  of  the  coming  wedding  in  Salem.  It  be 
hooves  me  to  say  the  bride  is  not  happy  ;  she  is  even 
now  distraught  with  perplexities  and  doubts — doubts 
of  her  right  to  wed  the  saintly  Mr.  Wentworth,  with 
but  coldness  for  him  in  her  heart." 

"  What  right  hast  thou,  a  stranger,  to  address  me 
thus?"  she  replied  quickly. 

"  The  right  I  take  in  saving  so  much  grace  and 


78  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

beauty  from  a  fate  so  dire  in  this  benighted  spot  of 
the  New  World.  You  are  as  yet  innocent  of  what 
the  world  contains.  I  trow  I  could  tell  a  story  that 
would  make  a  smile  as  bright  as  heaven  come  over 
the  sweetest  face  the  sun  ever  shone  upon."  As  he 
spoke  he  leaned  toward  her  and  looked  boldly  and 
laughingly  into  her  downcast  countenance. 

She  gave  him  a  shy  glance,  and  said,  "  Tell  me 
the  story,  Sir  Grenville,  I  would  fain  hear  it.  Is  it 
of  fair  England?  " 

He  laughed  softly.  "  It  is  of  England.  Ah,  that 
I  could  with  the  power  of  words  depict  the  joys  of 
that  gay  city  of  London!  It  is  pitiful  that  one  born 
to  grace  so  high  a  state  should  feel  but  half  the  pulse 
of  living.  Of  a  certainty  it  is  death  when  one  lays 
aside  all  that  makes  life  bearable.  One  can  renounce 
no  more  when  he  lies  down  in  the  cold  earth  forever." 

Then  followed  a  long  account  of  the  feasts  and 
revels,  of  the  court  pageants,  the  gorgeous  dresses 
of  the  knights  and  the  fair  ladies.  Dorothy  listened 
entranced,  clasping  her  small  hands  and  looking 
earnestly  into  his  face.  She  became  absorbed,  car 
ried  beyond  a  thought  of  the  impropriety  of  thus 
conversing  in  these  lonely  woods  with  a  stranger,  and 
one,  too,  so  steeped  in  the  wiles  of  Satan. 


DOROTHY'S  TEMPTATION.  79 

"  And  thou  hast  seen  all  this?  "  she  asked.  "Ah, 
that  I  might  have  just  one  little  glimpse !  But  no, 
I  never  shall." 

"  Why  not?  "  he  said.  "  Surely  you  have  a  right 
in  the  disposal  of  your  future;  your  life  is  your 
own." 

She  shook  her  head  sadly  but  decidedly.  "  No, 
no,  I  have  no  right ;  I  am  a  ward  and  under  age. 
But  let  me  tell  thee  why  I  was  so  sad  when  thou 
didst  draw  near  to  comfort  me — for  thou  hast  com 
forted  me  with  thy  beauteous  story."  She  hesitated, 
awed  by  the  unusual  desire  that  assailed  her  to  thus 
confide  in  a  stranger.  But  Sir  Grenville  urged  her 
to  proceed,  drawing  nearer  to  her,  and  watching  de 
lightedly  the  varying  expressions  of  her  innocent 
face. 

"  I  will  tell  thee,  then,"  she  said.  "  It  was  but 
this  morn  that  I  did  search  in  the  old  chest  in  the 
garret  for  things  wherewith  to  add  to  my  wedding 
outfit.  I  did  find  there  a  gorgeous  robe  of  blue 
tiffany  and  a  red  whittle  embroidered  in  gold,  and  a 
coiffure  with  long  silk  lappets,  and  sundry  other 
parts  of  a  gala  dress.  They  were  fine!"  she  cried 
excitedly.  "  Furthermore,  I  did  find  a  long  chain 
of  gold  beads"  She  paused.  "Oh,  such  bright 


80  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

gold  beads  !  I  donned  this  brave  attire  and  did 
descend  to  the  kitchen  to  Aunt  Martha."  The  tears 
gathered  in  her  eyes ;  she  hesitated. 

"  Well,  what  then?  "  urged  Sir  Grenville.  "  I  wot 
the  old  dame  was  wroth,"  he  laughed. 

"  She  was  greatly  angered  with  me.  She  said 
they  were  my  mother's  robes,  given  her  by  my  god 
less  father,  and  she  did  keep  them  hidden.  I  must 
e'en  take  them  off  and  put  them  away.  She  would 
not  let  me  have  the  golden  beads,  though  I  beggcd 
with  tears." 

Sir  Grenville  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed 
loudly.  He  had  removed  his  large  hat  and  thrown 
it  on  the  grass  beside  him ;  his  blonde  hair  shone 
brightly  in  the  light. 

"That  is  of  a  certainty  a  grievous  trouble,"  he 
replied  soothingly,  becoming  grave  at  her  expression 
of  solemn  surprise  at  his  mirth  ;  "  but  fret  not.  Come 
here  this  time  to-morrow,  and  I  will  give  you  a  far 
more  costly  chain  of  gold  than  that  Aunt  Martha 
has  refused  to  give.  Your  trouble  is  one  that  will 
quickly  heal." 

"  Ah,  no,  no,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head.  "Aunt 
Martha  would  not  let  me  keep  it." 

He  watched  her  curiously  an  instant,  then  said, 


DOROTHY'S  TEMPTATION.  81 

"  Why  tell  her?  Keep  the  secret.  What  she  does 
not  know  will  not  trouble  her;  take  this  little  gift 
from  me.  Come  to-morrow  and  I  will  bring  the 
chain.  Be  not  alarmed ;  I  will  not  bind  you  with 
the  bauble." 

She  still  shook  her  head.  "  I  fear  me  it  is  not 
right,  yet  methinks  I  desire  much  to  possess  the 
beads.  Yet  if  I  may  not  speak  of  them  they  do  not 
benefit  me ;  as  well  might  they  remain  in  the  old 
chest  in  the  garret." 

"  Those  treasures  in  the  chest  are  not  in  your 
possession ;  there  will  be  a  great  difference,  as  you 
will  find  when  you  own  the  gold  chain.  Our  neigh 
bor's  good  things,  be  they  never  so  costly,  equal 
not  our  own  little  jewel  of  perchance  but  meager 
price." 

She  still  reiterated  her  denial.  "  I  dare  not,"  she 
said. 

"Are  they  not  worth  this  little  walk  and  talk?" 
urged  Sir  Grenville  coaxingly.  "  And  they  would 
so  well  become  you." 

"  Perchance  I  shall  come,  then,  to  the  woods 
again,  if  thou  art  sure  I  do  no  harm.  Yet  I  will  not 
take  the  beads;  I  will  but  look  and  admire  them." 

"  Harm  !  "  he  cried.     "As  much  harm  as  the  dove 


82  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

does,  or  the  gentle  lamb.  I  shall  look  to-morrow 
at  this  hour  for  your  sweet  presence,  and  shall  bring 
the  jewel  for  your  inspection." 

He  took  her  hand,  and  bowing  low  over  it,  kissed 
it.  She  blushed  and  drew  it  quickly  away. 

"  I  fear  me  thou  art  over  bold,"  she  said. 

"  It  is  the  custom  at  the  court,"  he  explained. 
"And  be  not  angry  if  I  bring  the  bauble ;  if  you 
are  still  hard-hearted  I  shall  take  it  back.  I  cannot 
force  it  upon  you.  Methinks,"  he  laughed  softly, 
"  when  once  seen  it  will  prove  a  powerful  argu 
ment."  As  he  spoke  these  last  words  he  cast  a 
piercing  glance  upon  her. 

She  shivered  under  it.  "  I  will  come,"  she  said 
simply,  and  left  him,  not  looking  back,  but  going 
quietly  over  the  meadows  toward  the  farm. 

That  night  a  new  strength  came  to  the  girl,  and 
she  resolved  to  go  no  more  to  the  woods ;  yet  with 
this  resolve  mingled  the  desire  for  further  converse 
with  the  fascinating  cavalier.  When  the  morning 
dawned  her  will  had  weakened ;  as  the  sun  dries  up 
the  dew  upon  the  grass,  so  the  light  chased  away 
her  good  resolutions. 

The  soft  glow  of  the  afternoon  sun,  shimmering 
through  thick-leaved  boughs,  fell  upon  Dorothy 


DOROTHY'S  TEMPTATION.  83 

seated  once  more  by  the  side  of  Sir  Grenville.  He 
had  drawn  the  glittering  coil  of  gold  from  the  bosom 
of  his  lace-frilled  shirt,  and  was  holding  it  up  to  her 
admiring  gaze. 

"Ah!"  she  exclaimed,  entranced.  "It  is  most 
beautiful !  I  would  it  were  not  wrong  to  take  it 
from  thee ;  I  fear  Satan  controls  my  will  and  forces 
me  to  wish  for  its  possession.  But  let  me  hold  it  in 
my  hand  once — that  will  be  no  harm ;  I  will  give  it 
back  to  thee." 

He  held  it  out  to  her,  and  she  took  it  in  her  hand  ; 
the  glittering  chain  seemed  to  coil  around  her  slen 
der  fingers  like  some  living  thing.  She  leaned  over 
it,  examining  its  workmanship ;  then,  holding  it  to 
ward  him,  she  spoke : 

"  Perchance  I  might  take  it  from  thee,  were  it  not 
for  a  troublous  dream  I  had  yesternight.  In  my 
dream  I  saw  my  mother  bending  above  me ;  she 
held  her  arms  out  toward  me,  as  though  to  draw 
me  to  her,  and  she  did  say,  '  Dorothy,  my  child, 
my  child,  may  God  protect  thee!'  I  tried  to  go  to 
her ;  I  could  not ;  something  of  great  force  held  me 
back,  and  when  I  looked  to  see  whence  came  this 
great  strength,  it  was  a  chain  of  gold  that  did  bind 
me.  Then  I  did  awake,  and  in  the  moonlight  on 


84  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

the  floor  I  thought  I  saw  my  mother  kneeling.  I 
heard  low  sounds  of  weeping,  though  of  a  certainty 
that  must  have  been  the  wind ;  and  I  was  cold  and 
much  affrighted,  and  did  repeat,  to  reassure  myself, 
one  of  the  psalms." 

For  an  instant  Sir  Grenville's  hand  that  held  the 
trinket  trembled.  He  made  a  gesture  as  if  to  re 
place  it  in  the  bosom  of  his  shirt ;  a  troubled  look 
came  upon  his  face ;  then  he  threw  up  his  head 
defiantly  and  laughed. 

"  Truly  your  dream  was  of  a  troubled  nature.  A 
dream  is  naught ;  forget  it.  The  moonlight  must 
have  fallen  across  your  face  and  addled  your  brain. 
Let  me  clasp  this  chain  about  your  throat,  then  look 
you  in  yonder  clear  brook  and  see  how  well  it  be 
comes  you." 

"  I  will  not  promise  to  take  it  from  thee,"  she 
pouted ;  "  I  will  but  place  it  upon  my  throat  and 
then  return  it." 

Sir  Grenville  smiled.  "  When  it  shines  upon  your 
white  neck  I  wot  you  must  possess  it,  else  you  were 
not  a  woman." 

She  allowed  him  to  clasp  the  jeweled  trinket  about 
her  slim  throat,  her  blushes  coming  and  going,  and 
her  eyes  shining.  Then,  stooping  over  the  clear 


DOROTHY'S  TEMPTATION.  85 

pool,  where  the  little  brook  had  widened  and  made 
a  natural  mirror  framed  in  a  delicate  fringe  of  softest 
green  moss,  she  gazed  intently  at  the  reflection  of 
herself.  She  turned  her  head  to  catch  the  glitter  of 
the  beads  as  the  sun  shone  upon  them.  Sir  Greri- 
ville  looked  over  her  shoulder,  his  handsome  face 
close  to  hers,  his  breath  warm  on  her  cheek.  No 
warning  came  to  the  smiling  girl  that  far  off  in  the 
west  a  cloud  was  rising,  a  cloud  scarce  larger  than  a 
bubble,  and  scarce  more  tangible,  but  from  whose 
infinitesimal  beginning  might  ere  long  gather  a 
mighty  tempest. 

Dorothy  smiled  at  the  two  reflections  in  the 
stream,  and  said,  "  Methinks  I  will  keep  the  trinket, 
it  becomes  me  well ;  and  I  will  follow  thy  advice 
and  say  naught  of  it." 

Dorothy  came  again  many  times  to  the  seclusion 
of  her  woodland  haunt,  and  never  did  she  sit  alone 
upon  the  gnarled  seat  of  oak.  Sir  Grenville  under 
stood  perfectly  the  nature  he  was  dealing  with,  and 
was  most  wary  and  cautious  in  his  advances.  He 
had  been  trained  in  the  school  of  duplicity,  and 
made  an  excellent  instructor  for  so  pliable  and  inno 
cent  a  scholar  as  Dorothy. 

Alden  Wentworth  was  forgotten ;   his  stern,  quiet 


86  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

image  faded  from  her  mind ;  in  its  place  stood  the 
gay,  smiling  face  of  the  courtier.  The  domestic 

future  that  would  have  been  hers  in  the  new  home 

• 

now  building  gave  place  to  a  glittering  life  beyond 
the  seas — a  life  so  radiant  with  all  this  world  can 
offer  that  her  imagination  soared  upward  in  a  tumult 
of  exaltation  and  triumph. 

The  wedding-day  drew  near.  October,  cool, 
crisp,  and  beautiful,  came  with  soft  winds  and  a  blue 
haze  upon  the  hills.  Among  the  woods  the  trees 
gleamed  in  gold  and  scarlet ;  the  fields  and  late 
fall  flowers  glowed  with  a  tropical  splendor ;  in  the 
woods  and  reedy  marshes  hundreds  of  fall  birds 
came  flocking  to  become  a  prey  to  the  hunter.  The 
little  village  basked  pleasantly  in  the  grateful  warmth, 
which  was  the  more  welcome  in  anticipation  of  the 
rigors  of  coming  winter. 

Dorothy,  her  cheeks  bright  with  color,  her  face 
radiant,  flittered  with  an  unusual  restlessness  in  and 
out  of  the  farmhouse.  She  kept  aloof  as  much  as 
possible  from  Wentworth,  startling  him  at  times 
with  unaccountable  fits  of  childish  petulance.  He 
watched  her  with  a  hungry  wistfulness  that  was  most 
pathetic  to  behold.  He  scarcely  understood  her 
varied  moods,  yet  he  trusted  her  perfectly,  and 


DOROTHY'S  TEMPTATION.  87 

loved  her  with  a  passion  that  had  complete  posses 
sion  of  him. 

The  strict  discipline  of  his  age  and  creed  might 
have  made  him  suspicious  of  the  motives  of  others,  but 
the  innate  goodness  of  his  mind  and  heart  counter 
acted  this  possible  effect.  He  looked  upon  Dorothy 
through  the  lens  of  his  affection — an  affection  not 
unmixed  with  awe,  for  he  felt  that  she  had  qualities 
beyond  his  comprehension.  She  was  to  him  as  a 
beautiful  wild  bird,  whose  strange  songs  and  flutter 
ing  wings  would  become  quiet  when  her  true  rest 
ing-place  was  found. 

The  stolen  meetings  in  the  dim  recesses  of  the 
woods  continued.  At  length  came  a  memorable 
day,  when  Dorothy,  her  hand  held  closely  by  Sir 
Grenville,  upon  her  ringer  a  jeweled  circlet  which 
was  to  be  removed  and  concealed  later,  promised  to 
leave  Salem  secretly,  go  with  him  to  Boston,  there 
marry  him,  then  cross  the  seas  to  England  as  Lady 
Grenville  Lawson. 


CHAPTER   V. 

THE    FLIGHT. 

THE  early  morning  sunshine  cast  pale,  cold  rays 
upon  the  wooden  floor  of  the  kitchen  at  the  Holden 
farm.  The  breakfast- table  was  set  for  the  plain, 
substantial  breakfast,  while  Martha  bustled  about  the 
stove,  rattling  pots  and  pans.  David  was  seated 
near  the  window,  looking  out  over  the  fields,  where 
the  wheat  rose  in  stacks  and  the  corn  stood  tied  in 
hillocks,  the  yellow  pumpkins  showing  between  the 
rows. 

The  brother  and  sister  had  not  spoken  for  some 
minutes ;  then  David,  turning  from  his  dreamy  sur 
vey  of  the  fields,  looked  anxiously  toward  Martha ; 
she,  as  if  compelled  by  his  glance,  turned  quickly. 

"  Martha,"  he  said,  a  heavy  frown  upon  his  stern 
face,  "  I  have  suffered  much  this  past  night  in  my 
mind  about  Dorothy.  The  child's  manner  is  un 
natural,  and  yestereven,  when  Wentworth  came 
nigh  her,  she  shuddered  and  drew  away  from  him ; 


THE    FLIGHT.  89 

I  saw  the  motion  with  dismay.  Alas !  I  fear  some 
hideous  outcome  from  this  strange  demeanor.  Anx 
ious  thoughts  of  her  robbed  me  of  my  hours  of 
sleep." 

"  Out  upon  thy  prating,  man!"  said  Martha  stur 
dily,  brandishing  an  iron  pot  in  her  hand.  "  The  girl 
is,  as  all  girls  are,  silly  and  full  of  whims.  I  tell 
thee  Alden  Wentworth  will  tame  her.  He  is  patient 
now  for  blind  love  of  her;  when  he  is  the  master  I 
wot  he  will  clip  her  wings." 

"  I  know  not,  I  know  not.  Dost  think  we  did 
wrong  to  urge  the  child?  Perchance,  had  she  her 
way,  she  would  not  have  married  him." 

"  I  tell  thee,  David,  thou  art  a  weak  fool.  Why 
not  bid  a  riotous  colt  go  its  way  through  the  streets? 
Dost  thou  not  bridle  it  till  it  is  subdued  and  tamed  ? 
Dorothy  is  but  a  child  ;  I  take  no  doubt  to  my  con 
science  but  we  did  the  right  in  compelling  her." 

"  It  may  be ;  and  yet  for  reasons  that  do  assail 
me  at  times  I  am  anxious.  I  have  judged,  'tis  true, 
but  by  her  looks  and  fearsome  manner." 

"  'Tis  all  right,  take  my  word  for  that.  Though 
at  times  I  well-nigh  lose  all  patience,  I  subdue  my 
desire  to  punish  her.  So  bide,  David;  let  her  go 
her  way.  Alden  is  a  saint-like  man,  yet  he  is  mas- 


9O  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

terful.  The  results  of  his  training  will  tell  a  different 
story  a  year  hence,  so  fear  not."  She  paused  and 
took  some  steaming  porridge  from  the  fire,  and  placed 
it  upon  the  table.  Having  accomplished  this,  she 
stood  a  moment  in  the  center  of  the  room,  irresolute, 
then  continued,  "  The  child  is  late  this  morn  ;  she 
has  overslept.  I  will  call  her." 

Martha  walked  across  the  kitchen  to  the  inner 
room,  whence  her  voice  came  loud  and  shrill,  calling 
Dorothy  to  breakfast.  No  voice  responded  from  the 
upper  chamber.  David  leaned  forward,  his  head 
bowed  within  his  hands.  "  Yes,  she  is  late,"  he  said. 

Presently  Martha  reentered  the  kitchen ;  her  face 
wore  a  strange  expression.  She  walked  slowly,  and 
in  her  hand  she  held  a  crumpled  sheet  of  paper. 
"  David — David,"  she  gasped,  coming  forward,  "  she 
— she  has  left  us! " 

The  woman  laid  her  hand  upon  the  side  of  the 
kitchen  table,  as  if  to  steady  herself,  and  stared 
straight  before  her.  David  snatched  the  letter  from 
his  sister's  hand.  He  did  not  speak,  but  the  heavy 
frown  deepened  between  his  brows.  Then  he  read 
the  note  aloud  in  a  low,  firm  voice,  his  manner  giv 
ing  the  impression  that  he  had  expected  this,  and 
was  prepared  to  meet  it. 


THE    FLIGHT.  91 

"  '  AUNT  MARTHA  AND  UNCLE  DAVID  :  I  am 
unhappy  in  Salem.  I  go  to  my  father's  people.  I 
give  Alden  back  his  troth,  and  I  beseech  thee,  if 
thou  hast  loved  me,  to  forgive 

" '  DOROTHY.' 

"That  is  all,"  said  David;  "  she  has  forgotten  all 
these  years  of  love  and  care ;  there  is  no  word  of 
gratitude.  Yet  'tis  unlike  Dorothy ;  she  was  ever 
grateful.  Methinks  some  evil  spirit  hath  entered 
into  her,  and  she  doeth  this  thing  against  her  will." 

"Against  her  will!"  shrieked  Martha,  the  rage 
that  burned  within  her  leaping  all  bounds.  "  She 
hath  for  her  heritage  the  godless  spirit  of  her  father ; 
she  hath  no  heart  or  soul  for  good ;  she  is  an  un 
grateful,  deceitful,  lying  wench.  I  cast  her  from 
me ;  no  part  within  me  holds  she  from  henceforth ; 
no  home  of  mine  shall  she  enter  more." 

David  laid  his  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  trem 
bling,  excited  woman.  "  Martha,  remember  she  is 
our  little  sister's  child ;  remember  the  promise  thou 
hast  made  to  her  dead  mother." 

Martha  tore  herself  from  his  touch  and  burst  into 
a  torrent  of  sobs,  leaning  her  head  down  upon  the 
table,  her  shoulders  shaking  with  a  paroxysm  of 


92  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

grief.  David  stood  over  her,  looking  down  sadly 
upon  her  bowed  head. 

"  Martha,"  he  said,  "  God  hath  afflicted  us."  His 
voice  had  a  solemn  ring,  like  the  voice  of  a  minister 
when  he  reads  the  last  rites  over  the  dead.  "  He 
has  permitted  this  grief  to  come  upon  us ;  all  that 
He  doeth  is  right." 

The  couple  did  not  hear  a  step  upon  the  narrow 
walk  that  led  around  the  side  of  the  house,  nor  did 
they  move  until  a  voice  said : 

"  Good-morning,  Mistress  Holden.  I  am  an  early 
caller;  the  freshest  bunch  of  Michaelmas  daisies  in 
all  Salem  I  must  perforce  bring  Dorothy,  the  dew 
yet  wet  upon  their  leaves.  Has  she  not  risen?" 

Martha  lifted  her  head ;  her  swollen,  tear-stained 
face  was  filled  with  terror  and  dismay.  She  held 
out  her  shaking  hands  toward  Wentworth,  who, 
sorely  puzzled,  stood  upon  the  threshold  holding  the 
bunch  of  fall  flowers  in  his  hand. 

"  Alden — Alden,  God  give  me  strength  to  tell 
thee!  She — hath  left  thee — hath  given  thee  back 
thy  troth ;  she  has  renounced  thee,  and  we  shall  see 
her  no  more." 

Alden  Wentworth  did  not  move;  he  had  not 
grasped  her  meaning.  He  stood  irresolute  a  moment, 


THE    FLIGHT.  93 

then  advanced  a  step.  "  Given  me  back  my  troth? 
I  know  not  what  thou  canst  mean,"  he  said  slowly. 

"Read  this — read  this!  She  was  not  in  her 
room  last  night ;  she  has  gone ;  this  is  what  is  left 
us."  Martha  held  the  note  out  toward  him. 

Wentworth  took  the  note,  and  the  flowers  dropped 
from  his  nerveless  fingers  upon  the  floor,  and  lay 
there,  mute  reproaches  for  their  useless  mission.  He 
read  the  few  words  and  handed  the  note  back.  A 
pallor  spread  itself  over  his  dark  face,  a  dullness 
settled  in  his  eyes. 

"  Hath  she  left  naught  for  me  ?  "  he  said.  "  Sure 
ly,  surely  she  cannot  have  forgotten  that  I  would 
suffer  most." 

"  She  hath  left  naught,"  answered  Martha. 

The  morning  breeze  blew  gently  through  the 
open  door,  carrying  with  it  the  sweet,  cool  odors  of 
the  autumn ;  it  rustled  the  leaves  of  the  bunch  of 
daisies  that  lay  upon  the  floor. 

"Naught?"  he  cried.  "Then,  O  my  God,  I  am 
indeed  left  desolate.  Dorothy,  Dorothy,  thou  hast 
broken  my  heart!" 

He  swayed  slightly,  but  steadied  himself,  and 
passed  his  hand  across  his  brow.  Then  he  stooped 
and  picked  up  the  flowers,  and  handed  them  with  a 


94  DOROTHY   THE    PURITAN. 

sad  smile  to  Martha.  "  I  have  brought  them  for 
her  burial,  it  seemeth.  She  is  dead."  He  paused, 
then  continued  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  communing  with 
himself:  "Perchance  such  love  as  mine  shall  but 
slumber  in  hope,  and  in  a  better  world  will  re 
awaken,  where  Dorothy  and  I  shall  have  eternity 
together.  I  might  have  seen  this  result,  had  I  not 
forced  myself  into  blindness.  I  have  been  a  weak 
fool;  she  never  loved  me,  and  I  knew  it." 

Martha  was  frightened.  His  quiet,  self-contained 
nature  had  never,  to  their  knowledge,  overstepped 
the  bounds  of  a  gentle  passiveness.  In  fact,  there 
had  been  times  when  they  had  deemed  him  almost 
lacking  in  an  interest  in  human  joys.  Now,  like  a 
mighty  torrent,  the  suppressed,  unsatisfied  longings 
of  his  heart  burst  forth,  and  the  brother  and  sister 
were  dismayed  at  the  very  humanity  of  the  man. 

The  depth  of  feeling  and  despair  manifested  in 
his  words  and  actions  compelled  Martha  to  silence 
her  own  grief ;  and,  rising  from  her  seat,  she  laid 
her  hand  on  Wentworth's  arm.  "  Forget  her,"  she 
said.  "  She  was  never  worthy  thy  affection.  Thou 
wast  not  guided  aright  in  thy  choice.  Heaven  for 
give  me  for  thus  urging  it.  It  was  my  pride  and 
ambition — I  did  ever  force  the  child." 


THE    FLIGHT.  95 

"Forget  her!"  he  said  sadly.  "Can  the  world 
forget  the  sun  when  it  has  hid  its  light  and  the  dark 
ness  comes?  Do  the  flowers  forget  the  summer 
when  the  winter  is  here  and  they  sleep  in  hopes  of 
an  awakening?  Can  I  forget  one  who  has  been 
more  to  me  than  sun  or  many  flowers — one  who  has 
been  my  life,  whose  image  I  have  enthroned  above 
my  duty  to  my  Creator?"  He  paused.  "Let  us 
speak  no  more  of  her.  I  have  little  strength  left;  I 
will  go  to  my  work." 

He  stepped  through  the  doorway  a  little  unstead 
ily,  then  passed  out  of  sight,  the  weeping  woman 
looking  wistfully  after  him. 

When  Dorothy  in  the  gloom  of  night  passed  down 
the  .creaking  staircase  of  the  old  farmhouse  and 
thence  through  the  kitchen,  where  the  tins  upon  the 
wall  reflected  the  tiny  moonbeams  that  stole  through 
the  chinks  of  the  wooden  shutters,  no  apprehension 
assailed  her.  The  thought  of  leaving  those  who  had 
been  kind  to  her  from  infancy,  and  who,  in  accord 
ance  with  all  laws  of  nature,  she  should  have  loved, 
did  not  trouble  her  for  the  moment.  Her  mind  was 
filled  with  dreams  of  grandeur  and  freedom  from 
restraint. 

As  she  went  across  the  moonlighted  fields,  and 


96  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

down  the  country  road,  she  did  not  hesitate  or  turn 
back  but  once,  and  that  was  when  the  low  hoot  of 
an  owl  echoed  mournfully  from  a  tree  by  the  way 
side.  She  started  at  the  cry  and  glanced  nervously 
about  her,  a  little  wistfully,  perhaps.  She  gazed 
backward  an  instant  toward  the  slumbering  village 
that  lay  so  quiet  and  motionless  beneath  the  stars, 
then  her  glance  wandered  toward  the  farmhouse, 
looking  lonely  amidst  its  wide  fields. 

"  Aunt  Martha  will  be  grieved  for  me,"  she  mur 
mured.  "  But  Sir  Grenville  has  promised  that  some 
day  I  shall  return  in  splendor" — she  threw  up  her 
graceful  head  proudly — "  and  then  all  Salem  shall 
see  what  a  grand  dame  little  wild  Dorothy  can 
make." 

Sir  Grenville  had  planned  the  elopement  with  all 
secrecy,  and  Dorothy  had  acquiesced,  never  demur 
ring  at  any  of  the  details  of  their  contemplated  jour 
ney.  He,  knowing,  or  at  least  fearing,  that  his  dis 
appearance  simultaneously  with  hers  might  excite 
the  suspicions  of  the  villagers,  had  left  Salem  some 
days  previous.  He  was  then  to  return  on  an  ap 
pointed  night,  when  he  would  wait  for  Dorothy  on 
the  borders  of  the  forest.  With  a  good  fresh  horse 
and  a  pillion  behind  the  saddle  they  would  take  the 


THE    FLIGHT.  97 

bridle  path  to  Boston,  a  distance  of  some  sixteen 
miles — not  long  in  these  days  of  smooth  roads,  but 
quite  a  hazardous  undertaking  over  a  rough,  stony 
path,  through  a  gloomy  forest,  and  in  the  darkness 
of  the  night. 

When  Dorothy  reached  the  trysting-place,  Sir 
Grenville  stepped  hastily  forward  from  the  thickets, 
and,  grasping  her  hand,  drew  her  quickly  toward 
him.  "Ah,  at  last!"  he  murmured.  "You  are 
late." 

"  I  have  hastened,"  she  replied;  "yet  methinks  it 
reached  the  hour  of  ten  before  the  house  became 
quiet  and  I  might  with  safety  venture  forth." 

"  We  must  delay  no  longer ;  all  is  ready.  I  will 
mount  you  upon  the  pillion,  and  we  will  hasten  on 
our  journey ;  I  wish  to  profit  by  the  light  of  the 
moon  as  long  as  may  be." 

She  obeyed  him,  and  they  started,  riding  slowly 
and  cautiously  through  the  gloom.  The  horse 
picked  his  way  carefully,  now  and  then  stopping  to 
shy  at  some  fantastic  form  that  fell  across  the  road 
occasioned  by  the  gentle  swaying  of  a  branch. 

Dorothy  did  not  speak ;  her  mind  was  too  en 
grossed  in  the  contemplation  of  the  wondrous  picture 
held  before  her  delighted  gaze,  so  cunningly  colored 


98  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

by  her  admirer's  hand  that  the  true  outline  of  the 
figure  was  hid  in  a  blaze  of  deceptive  splendor. 

Suddenly  an  unaccountable  depression  settled  like 
a  heavy  weight  of  iron  upon  her  spirits.  She  re 
mained  passive  in  her  seat  behind  Sir  Grenville, 
speaking  when  he  addressed  her,  but  only  in  mono 
syllables.  This  depression  (the  first  faint  stirring  of 
conscience)  was  no  doubt  increased  by  her  surround 
ings.  The  murmurings  in  the  trees  resembled  the 
sighing  of  human  voices;  the  tinkling  noise  made 
by  little  wayside  brooks  sounded  loud  and  ominous ; 
while  horrible  forms  and  faces  were  conjured  up  by 
her  vivid  imagination  from  the  restless  swaying  of 
the  branches. 

Sir  Grenville  was  apparently  occupied  in  guiding 
his  horse,  and  indeed  it  was  most  necessary  that  he 
should  do  so,  for  now  and  then  the  steed  would 
stumble  and  almost  fall  upon  its  knees.  Once 
this  mishap  actually  occurred.  Dorothy  started  and 
trembled  as  Sir  Grenville  uttered  an  oath  and  reined 
the  animal  up  so  viciously  that  they  were  almost  dis 
mounted.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  heard  his 
voice  in  other  tones  save  courtesy  and  affection.  A 
shudder  passed  over  her. 

"Thou  art  cruel  to  the  poor  beast,"  she  remon- 


THE    FLIGHT.  99 

strated.  "He  cannot  see;  he  carries  a  double 
load." 

"  He  must  watch  his  steps,  or  he  will  become  dis 
abled.  I  like  not  the  prospect  of  spending  the  re 
mainder  of  the  night  hours  in  these  woods,  even 
with  so  fair  a  charmer." 

She  said  no  more,  and  in  silence  they  traversed 
the  remainder  of  the  journey.  When  they  reached 
the  outskirts  of  Boston,  Sir  Grenville  reined  in  the 
horse,  and  turning  in  the  saddle  said : 

"  I  would  have  you  dismount  and  rest  a  while 
before  entering  the  town ;  I  have  made  all  arrange 
ments  for  your  reception  in  the  place,  yet  methinks 
the  ride  has  been  long,  and  a  change  of  position 
would  be  agreeable.  Furthermore,  I  have  some 
thing  I  wish  to  tell  you  before  we  proceed." 

She  detected  a  peculiar  trembling  in  his  voice  that 
alarmed  her ;  a  muffled  sound,  and  a  halting  inflec 
tion  never  heard  before.  She  did,  however,  as  he 
desired,  and  presently  they  were  standing  side  by 
side,  at  no  great  distance  from  the  horse,  and  near 
the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree.  Through  the  interstices 
of  the  branches  of  some  tall  shrubs  they  could  dis 
tinguish  a  few  faint  lights,  indicating  the  direction 
of  the  seaport  town.  He  had  clasped  her  hand  fran- 


IOO  DOROTHY   THE    PURITAN. 

tically,  and  was  bending  over  her,  seeking  as  he 
spoke  to  watch  her  face,  which  he  could  see  but 
dimly,  the  lantern  hanging  on  the  pommel  of  the 
saddle  emitting  but  a  faint  gleam. 

"  Dorothy,  I  know  not  why  I  tell  you  of  this,  un 
less  it  be  a  force  from  within  compelling  me,  against 
which  I  cannot  contend."  He  paused.  She  trem 
bled  visibly,  but  did  not  reply.  "  Perchance,"  he 
continued,  "  I  am  not  the  hardened  wretch  I  deemed 
myself;  or  possibly  from  a  superstitious  terror  of 
the  warning  evinced  in  your  mother's  dream,  I  per 
force  can  deceive  you  no  further."  His  breath  came 
quickly,  and  he  hesitated.  "  You  have  trusted  me. 
What  if  I  should  tell  you  that  in  one  thing  I  have 
deceived  you;  would  you  despise  me?" 

"  How  can  I  tell  till  thou  shalt  acquaint  me  with 
the  secret?  "  She  looked  innocently  and  unsuspect 
ingly  toward  him.  "  I  am  no  witch,  I  cannot  read 
thy  mind." 

"  I  have  wronged  you,  Dorothy,"  he  cried ; 
"  wronged  you  to  win  you ;  lied  to  you  that  you 
might  become  mine." 

"Lied  to  me!"  she  murmured.  "In  what  hast 
thou  lied?" 

"  I  cannot  marry  you,"  he  said  desperately.     "At 


THE    FLIGHT.  IOI 

the  court  of  William  and  Mary  e'en  now  there  is  a 
lady  in  waiting  on  Her  Majesty  who  is  my  wife." 
He  spoke  as  though  the  words  were  forced  from 
him  against  his  consent.  "  I  did  marry  her  some 
years  previous.  We  were  unhappy,  and  I  left  her; 
she  hates  me,  and  I  do  most  heartily  reciprocate. 
Yet  the  bond  is  still  between  us — the  hated  binding 
yoke ;  she  is  of  the  Church  of  Rome,  that  permits 
no  divorce.  The  union  was  not  of  my  choice,  Dor 
othy,  it  was  made  for  me." 

Dorothy  did  not  reply  ;  she  drew  the  embroidered 
whittle  more  closely  about  her  shoulders,  although 
the  night  was  not  cold,  and  stood  motionless.  Then 
she  touched  his  arm  and  looked  up  into  his  face. 

"  I  fear  me  I  have  not  heard  thee  aright,"  she 
said.  "  If  thou  hast  said  truly,  then  why  am  I 
here?  " 

"  You  are  here,"  he  cried  passionately,  "  because 
I  would  not  let  that  hated  bond  part  us.  I  drew 
you  into  my  heart — I  could  not  cast  you  forth.  You 
held  me  by  your  beauty,  by  your  innocence.  I 
could  not  lose  you,  could  not  release  you.  Yet 
since  I  heard  from  you  that  in  a  dream  your  mother 
came  to  pray  for  her  child,  to  guard  her  from  all 
harm,  I  could  wrong  you  no  further.  The  path  is 


102  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

now  clear  between  us ;  all  is  told,  and  for  the  very 
love  I  bear  for  you,  whose  depth  has  no  measure,  I 
beseech  you,  forgive  me — forgive  me!" 

He  stepped  from  her  sjde  a  few  paces,  and,  fold 
ing  his  arms,  looked  down  upon  the  ground.  As 
he  receded  she  followed  him,  and  clasped  his  arm 
fiercely.  Lowering  her  head,  she  looked  into  his 
partly  averted  face. 

"  Then,  Sir  Grenville,  I  am  naught  to  thee,  nor 
can  I  ever  be ;  thou  hast  deceived  me,  else  I  would 
not  have  fled  with  thee.  Yet  in  one  deed  thou  hast 
been  kind ;  I  thank  thee  that  thou  hast  told  me  this. 
Thou  hast  betrayed  me,  'tis  true,  into  a  grave  mfs- 
take.  Thou  hast  relented,  and  e'en  now,  if  thou 
wilt,  thou  canst  restore  me  to  my  home  ere  yet  the 
morning  cometh." 

He  turned  vehemently  upon  her.  •  "  How  cool 
and  calm,  Mistress  Dorothy,  is  your  voice !  Did  I 
go  to  this  excess  of  trouble  only  to  restore  my  prize? 
Not  I.  You  mistake  the  man.  I  have  been  a  lucky 
hunter — my  bird  is  caught.  I  have  done  wrong, 
I  own  it,  yet  not  I  alone ;  I  have  left  my  wife  for 
you,  you  have  tricked  your  rightful  lover  for  me. 
Are  we  not  quits?  The  stones  you  cast  at  me  I  can 
e'en  with  justice  return." 

This  insight  into  his  selfish  nature  disgusted  and 


THE    FLIGHT.  1 03 

angered  her.  She  the  victim,  he  the  strong  con 
queror!  This  chance  upheaval  of  his  nearly  dor 
mant  conscience  by  a  superstitious  terror  of  conse 
quences  having  been  stilled  by  his  confession,  she 
was  now  to  be  dragged  into  the  meshes  of  his  net, 
to  lose  all  semblance  of  goodness,  to  sink  with  him 
into  the  depths. 

"  Thou  didst  seek  me,"  she  cried  angrily,  "  and 
cajole  me.  I  know  now  full  well  it  was  not  thee  I 
cared  for,  else  far  different  emotions  would  assail  me 
now ;  but  it  was  that  exalted  position  thou  didst 
promise  me." 

"Say  you  so,  indeed,  O  worldly  one?  Well, 
that  position  is  still  yours." 

"  Thou  knowest  a  falsehood  is  in  thy  words,"  she 
cried  excitedly,  stamping  her  foot  upon  the  ground 
as  she  spoke. 

"  What  may  be  pleased  to  be  your  wish,  fair 
lady  ?  "  he  said  sarcastically.  "  We  can  talk  in  these 
woods  no  longer;  the  light  of  the  morning  will  soon 
be  upon  us.  Let  me  help  to  mount  you  once  again 
into  the  pillion,  and  we  will  then  ride  into  Boston 
town.  On  the  way  think  deeply ;  I  warn  you  it 
were  better  for  you  to  bridle  your  words,  and  take 
the  '  goods  the  gods  provide.' ' 

"  I  will  not  go  with  thee!"  she  cried. 


104  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

"  I  can  compel  you.  Remember,  I  like  not  to 
use  force,  but  as  a  last  alternative  I  will  bind  a  cord 
about  you  in  the  pillion." 

"Thou  dare  not!"  she  exclaimed  in  a  frenzy  of 
terror. 

"  Listen,"  he  said  coaxingly :  "  no  aid  is  near,  no 
help  can  come ;  why  not  submit  ?  You  cannot  re 
turn  to  Salem ;  your  absence  will  have  been  noticed 
ere  this.  Those  exalted  pious  people,  the  elect  of 
God's  earth,  will  turn  the  cold  shoulder.  Be  discreet, 
be  wise." 

She  looked  down  moodily  upon  the  ground,  and 
appeared  to  be  thinking  earnestly,  then  she  spoke. 
"  Well,  then,  mount  thou  first,"  she  muttered  sul 
lenly,  after  some  moments  of  apparent  indecision. 
"  The  horse  is  restive.  I  want  thee  not  to  touch  me. 
Mount,  hold  the  steed's  head  firmly,  and  I  will  follow 
thee.  Yet  lay  this  to  thy  mind,  Sir  Grenville :  I 
leave  thee  in  Boston,  and  had  I  loved  thee  more  I 
would  be  more  aggrieved.  I  know  now  the  ambition 
that  was  in  my  vain  heart,  and  the  wickedness  of 
thine.  Mine  eyes  are  opened;  I  see  clearly." 

Sir  Grenville  hesitated  a  moment,  then  vaulted 
into  the  saddle  and  leaned  over  the  pommel,  holding 
out  his  hand  to  Dorothy.  Like  a  flash  she  seized 


THE    FLIGHT.  1 05 

a  stout  stick  from  the  ground,  and  grasping  it  in 
both  hands  she  drew  as  near  as  was  safe  to  the 
horse,  and  struck  him  a  strong  blow  upon  the  hind 
legs,  saying,  as  she  did  so,  "  Thou  art  a  coward,  Sir 
Grenville,  thou  hast  lied  to  me!" 

The  horse,  panic-stricken,  darted  forward,  dashing 
headlong  down  the  narrow  stony  road,  out  of  sight, 
Sir  Grenville  cursing  and  straining  at  the  reins  as 
the  frenzied  animal  swerved  wildly  from  side  to 
side.  As  the  horse  started,  Dorothy  observed  two 
figures  rise  abruptly  from  the  shelter  of  a  thick 
clump  of  bushes  and  disappear  in  the  shadows  of 
the  woods.  She  waited  for  no  further  develop 
ments,  but  turned  and  dashed  precipitately  from  the 
bridle  path  into  the  thickness  of  the  forest. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

THE    WINTER    IN   THE    FOREST. 

WHEN  the  terror-stricken  and  panting  girl  dashed 
headlong  from  the  bridle  path,  whither  she  knew 
not,  she  was  conscious  of  but  one  thing :  that  was  of 
being  hotly  pursued.  The  crackling  of  leaves  and 
twigs  and  the  breaking  of  branches  were  plainly 
audible.  The  echoing  steps  of  Sir  Grenville's  rapidly 
returning  horse  also  greeted  her  ears,  the  loud  thud 
of  the  hoofs  of  the  galloping  steed  sounding  near  and 
menacing.  She  paused  not  to  look  behind  her.  On, 
on  she  rushed,  fear  and  desperation  lending  her  cour 
age  and  strength.  She  struck  her  head  against  low- 
hanging  boughs,  lacerated  her  hands  upon  the  briers 
of  the  wild  berry  bushes  and  creepers,  but  still  she 
ran,  all  unaware  of  weariness. 

Presently  all  grew  strangely  still  about  her.  The 
pursuing  steps  ceased,  the  sound  of  the  horse's 
labored  galloping  died  away,  and  Dorothy,  ex 
hausted,  trembling  with  fear,  sank  down  at  the  foot 

1 06 


THE  WINTER  IN  THE  FOREST. 

of  a  great  tree.  Her  mind  surged  with  a  tumult  of 
varying  emotions,  accompanied  by  the  beating  of 
her  heart.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  fevered  pulsa 
tions  must  be  heard  upon  the  stillness  of  the  night. 
She  touched  her  brow ;  it  was  wet.  In  the  faint 
light  that  shone  upon  her  from  the  now  waning 
moon  she  saw  that  the  wet  stains  upon  her  hands 
were  blood. 

"  I  am  hurt,"  she  said  to  herself;  "yet  methinks 
I  felt  nothing."  She  rested  for  a  short  time,  leaning 
her  head  back  and  closing  her  eyes,  yet  listening 
sharply  for  any  suspicious  sound  that  might  warn  her 
of  pursuit.  At  times  she  opened  her  eyes,  and  gazed 
upward  at  the  great  expanse  of  foliage  above  her 
head.  Awful  phantoms  appeared  to  leer  upon  her 
from  the  oscillating  boughs.  To  her  highly  strung 
fancy,  some  pointed  the  finger  of  scorn  and  derision, 
others  opened  their  strangely  distorted  mouths  and 
laughed  at  her  discomfort,  though  no  sound  came 
from  them,  nothing  save  the  hoarse  murmur  of  the 
wind,  whose  tones  seemed  filled  with  mockery  and 
glee  over  her  hapless  condition.  The  moon's  light 
was  growing  paler,  the  sky  was  filled  with  myriads 
of  bright  stars,  that  twinkled  tremulously  in  the  cool 
air  of  the  October  night. 


108  DOROTHY   THE    PURITAN. 

A  terrible  dread  settled  upon  the  tired  girl.  Per 
haps  she  was  not  safe  even  here ;  she  must  hasten 
onward.  She  arose  laboriously,  her  stiffened  limbs 
refusing  to  act  immediately,  and  looked  fearfully 
about  her,  then  fled  like  an  affrighted  deer,  onward, 
onward,  to  some  possible  safe  retreat  whither  her 
enemies  could  not  follow.  She  hoped  that  when 
the  morning  dawned  she  would  find  herself  near 
some  settlement  or  clearing  in  the  wilderness.  She 
walked  for  perhaps  a  mile  or  more  farther,  dragging 
her  wearied  feet,  her  shoes  torn  and  dilapidated,  her 
head  hanging  forward,  her  mind  scarce  cognizant  of 
her  actions.  Her  one  clear  idea  was  that  she  must 
keep  moving. 

Presently  she  came  upon  a  small  clearing,  appar 
ently  in  the  very  heart  of  the  forest.  A  small, 
weather-beaten  house  stood  in  the  center  of  the 
clearing.  It  was  built  of  rough-hewn  logs,  and  was 
of  one  story  in  height,  with  an  L  at  the  back.  A 
general  air  of  neglect  was  apparent  in  the  surround 
ings  of  the  place,  visible  even  in  the  dim  light. 
There  was  no  sign  of  life  about  the  house,  and  no 
light  in  the  window. 

Dorothy  crept  cautiously  forward,  noticing,  as  she 
did  so,  that  the  clearing  was  surrounded  by  a  wooden 


THE    WINTER    IN   THE    FOREST.  IOQ 

paling  that  inclosed  a  garden.  The  pungent  odor  of 
some  fall  flowers  and  herbs  assailed  her  nostrils. 

"  Some  one  lives  here,"  she  murmured.  "  Per 
chance  they  will  pity  me  and  give  me  shelter,  e'en 
though  the  hour  is  so  late." 

She  entered  the  garden  gate,  and  approached  the 
house.  The  door  stood  open.  Peeping  cautiously 
within,  Dorothy  beheld  a  few  flickering  flames  from 
a  fire  upon  the  open  hearth  flash  upon  the  wooden 
floor.  She  hesitated,  and  stopped  abruptly  in  the 
path.  That  fear  of  the  supernatural,  implanted  in 
her  very  being  and  fostered  by  her  training,  rushed 
upon  her  with  an  irresistible  force.  There  was  some 
thing  uncanny  in  the  open  door,  in  the  dancing  fire 
light  at  this  late  hour,  when  all  honest  folks  were 
asleep.  The  picturesque  solitude  of  the  place  seemed 
to  warn  her  that  this  was  the  abode  of  no  simple, 
honest  woodcutter. 

A  numbness  crept  over  her;  her  limbs  shook  be 
neath  her  as  she  clung  for  support  to  the  broken 
palings  of  the  little  porch ;  great  beads  of  perspira 
tion  gathered  on  her  forehead  and  rolled  down  her 
face.  She  stood  irresolute  for  an  instant ;  then,  as 
if  impelled  onward  by  a  will  outside  herself,  she 
crossed  the  threshold  of  the  door. 


IIO  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

"  Is  any  one  here  who  will  give  me  shelter?  "  she 
said  softly,  with  trembling  tones. 

No  voice  responded.  The  dying  fire,  fanned  by 
the  motion  made  by  her  entrance,  flamed  up,  then 
died  out  to  a  tiny  red  spark.  She  stepped  farther 
into  the  room,  the  dim  light  from  the  flames  serving 
to  make  visible  the  furniture  of  the  abode,  which 
consisted  of  a  bed,  a  few  chairs,  and  a  large  oaken 
chest.  The  bed  stood  near  the  fire. 

Dorothy  sank  down  upon  the  floor  near  it,  her 
head  resting  against  its  side.  A  few  dried  twigs 
were  lying  on  the  hearth,  and  she  laid  some  of  these 
upon  the  blaze.  It  started  up  again,  casting  distorted 
shadows  upon  the  ceiling  and  walls. 

Some  occupants  of  the  room,  that  had  been  doz 
ing  in  a  corner,  now  came  forward  and  stretched 
themselves  before  the  hre,  gazing  up  into  Dorothy's 
face  with  large,  yellow,  solemn  eyes.  These  unex 
pected  visitors  were  three  black  cats — black,  with 
out  a  single  white  hair.  Their  movements  and  the 
increased  light  aroused  yet  other  sleeping  denizens. 
Soon  there  was  a  flutter  of  wings,  and  a- large  white 
arctic  owl  perched  upon  the  bed-post  and  blinked 
uneasily.  Other  birds  in  cages  awoke  and  fluttered 


THE  WINTER  IN  THE  FOREST.      I  I  I 

their  wings,  the  cats  purred,  and  the  room  seemed 
alive  with  all  these  gentle  noises. 

Dorothy  did  not  speak  or  move ;  she  was  utterly 
exhausted.  She  sat  staring  with  strained  eyes  into 
the  fire.  Presently  an  ominous  sound  greeted  her 
ears ;  she  started :  the  sound  of  heavy  steps,  ac 
companied  by  the  click  of  a  crutch.  The  steps 
came  nearer — halting,  uncertain,  dragging  steps,  that 
seemed  to  scarcely  advance,  so  slow  \vas  their  ap 
proach. 

Dorothy  became  as  one  without  feeling.  The 
steps  and  the  click  of  the  crutch  sounded  louder  and 
more  distinct,  first  upon  the  garden  path,  then  upon 
the  wooden  floor.  They  had  passed  the  doorstep 
and  \vere  coming  forward  into  the  circle  of  light. 

The  girl  did  not  move ;  she  clenched  her  hands, 
and  her  breath  came  in  short,  quick  gasps.  What 
was  this  thing,  that  walked  as  no  human  creature 
walked,  that  wandered  abroad  at  midnight,  that  kept 
for  company  the  owl  and  bat,  and  whose  home  was 
in  the  solitude  of  the  forest,  away  from  the  abode  of 
man?  Dorothy  dared  not  conjecture.  The  steps 
ceased  suddenly. 

"  I  hear  human  breathing,"  said  a  voice.     "  Ha! 


112  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

ha !  None  can  deceive  old  Goody.  Come  forward, 
whoever  my  visitor  may  be." 

Like  a  flash  the  horrible  reality  burst  upon  Doro 
thy.  This  was  the  hut  of  Goody  Trueman,  the  witch 
of  the  wilderness :  the  one  who  had  signed  the  com 
pact  with  the  King  of  Darkness;  the  one  who  rode 
at  midnight  upon  the  back  of  a  vampire,  followed 
by  thousands  of  serving  imps ;  the  one  whose  name 
stood  .foremost  in  the  Black  Book,  and  who  was  in 
league  with  the  powers  of  the  Evil  One.  The  girl 
shrank  into  a  heap  upon  the  floor,  her  hands  held 
out  helplessly  before  her  as  if  to  shield  herself  from 
some  horrible  fate,  her  head  falling  forward  on  her 
breast. 

"  Why  dost  thou  not  speak?  "  said  the  voice.  "  I 
saw  thee,  from  the  edge  of  the  woods,  enter  my 
house.  I  have  sharp  eyes.  Speak  up,  speak  up! 
I  know  thou  art  here." 

The  voice  had  an  odd,  uncertain  cackling  in  its 
tones.  Dorothy  leaned  forward  from  her  position 
upon  the  floor,  trembling  in  every  limb ;  she  raised 
her  eyes  fearfully  and  kept  them,  as  if  fascinated, 
upon  the  withered,  wrinkled  face  bending  above  her. 

Goody  Trueman  was  certainly  in  appearance  the 
veritable  type  of  a  witch :  small,  shrunken,  hunch- 


THE    WINTER    IN   THE    FOREST.  113 

backed,  her  head  resting  low  between  her  shoulders, 
her  eyes  catlike  and  deep-set,  her  skin  like  brown 
parchment,  her  nose  and  chin  almost  meeting,  and 
her  bony,  restless  hands  crooked  like  the  claws  of  an 
eagle.  On  her  head  she  wore  a  steeple-crowned  hat, 
and  over  her  quilted  petticoat  a  brilliant  scarlet  cloak, 
which,  when  the  firelight  struck  it,  glowed  a  flame 
color.  Her  shadow  spread  in  gigantic  proportions 
upon  the  wall,  covering  even  across  the  low  ceiling. 

She  appeared  to  Dorothy  to  be  standing  in  the 
midst  of  fire,  like  the  lost,  hideous  soul  she  was 
deemed  to  be.  She  was  indeed  the  realization  of 
that  terrible  creature  so  often  pictured  to  the  little 
Salem  girl.  The  supposed  witch  advanced  a  step 
nearer,  and  held  out  her  crooked  hands  to  the  blaze. 
One  of  the  cats  leaped  forward  and  nestled  upon  her 
shoulder,  purring  as  he  placed  his  black,  furry  face 
close  beside  that  of  his  mistress. 

Dorothy  gazed  an  instant  at  this  fearful  picture, 
then  from  her  white  lips  came  a  piercing  shriek,  so 
startling  to  the  feathered  inhabitants  of  the  hut  that 
they  fluttered  in  affright. 

"  Satan  hath  won  me !  'Tis  the  witch,  'tis  the 
witch!"  she  called  loudly.  "I  am  lost,  I  am  lost! 
'Tis  for  my  many  sins!"  and  throwing  up  her  arms 


114  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

wildly,  she  fell  back  unconscious  upon  the  floor. 
When  animation  returned,  Dorothy  saw  that  morn 
ing  had  come.  Through  the  small-paned  windows 
the  somber,  cold  light  of  the  early  dawn  was  enter 
ing,  bringing  into  clear  and  matter-of-fact  relief  those 
objects  which  by  the  weird  firelight  enhanced  the 
terrors  of  the  night.  A  pillow  had  been  placed  be 
neath  her  head,  a  coverlet  thrown  over  her  feet. 

Old  Goody  was  standing  before  the  fire.  She  was 
stirring  some  savory  mixture  in  a  saucepan,  mutter 
ing  to  herself  as  she  did  so.  Perhaps  the  beams  of 
morning,  perhaps  the  slight  rest  which  unconscious 
ness  had  brought  her,  dispelled  Dorothy's  great  dread 
and  fear.  She  raised  herself  slightly  and  watched 
the  old  woman  at  her  work. 

Presently  Goody  turned  her  head,  bending  her 
withered  countenance  upon  the  girl.  By  daylight 
she  did  not  resemble  so  decidedly  Dorothy's  idea  of 
a  servant  of  the  devil.  Her  very  human  occupation 
of  cooking  was  certainly  at  variance  with  the  popular 
notion  that  witches  did  not  eat,  save  at  those  terrible 
orgies  held  with  their  imps  at  midnight  in  the  forest. 

"  Thou  art  awake,"  said  Goody.  "  I  have  a  good 
and  soothing  draught  brewed  for  thee ;  see,  it  is  hot ; 
thou  must  take  it."  As  she  spoke  she  hobbled 


THE    WINTER    IN    THE    FOREST.  115 

across  the  room,  and  coming  to  the  side  of  the  girl 
where  she  lay  upon  the  floor,  leaned  over  her. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Dorothy,  warding  her  off  with  her 
outstretched  arm ;  "  thou  wouldst  have  me  drink  to 
my  soul's  damnation.  I  can  take  no  draught  from 
thine  hand." 

"  Out  upon  thee,  child!  Hast  thou  no  sense?  I 
am  no  witch,  only  a  harmless  old  woman  who  seeks 
thy  good." 

"  Ay,  so  thou  sayest.  Dost  thou  not  at  midnight 
ride  upon  thy  charger  through  the  air,  and  fly  above 
the  houses  in  Salem?  Oft  have  the  good  people 
heard  thee,  like  a  mighty  wind  rushing  by,  thy  imps 
with  thee.  Dost  thou  not  gather  the  deadly  night 
shade  and  brew  a  draught  that  weakens  men's  souls, 
so  that  they  cannot  say  thee  nay,  but  consent  to  sign 
their  names  in  the  Black  Book  thou  hast  always  un 
der  thy  arm?  " 

"  No,  no,  child ;  those  are  silly  stories  ;  heed  them 
not." 

"  Yet  I  am  sorely  afraid  of  thee.  I  dare  not  take 
thy  brew.  I  have  been  ever  taught  that  thou  art 
an  enemy  to  all  that  is  good,  and  dost  seek  to  harm 
all  mankind." 

"  No,  no,  that  is  untrue.     I  had  a  grievous  trouble 


Il6  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

once,  long  ago,  beyond  the  seas  in  my  old  home. 
I  grew  afraid  to  trust  all  human  love,  so  I  did  seek 
solitude  in  these  forests.  Much  brooding  hath  made 
me  what  I  am,  distraught  perhaps  at  times,  but 
never  seeking  harm  to  aught.  Thou  must  not  fear, 
me,  child.  Thou  must  not  turn  thy  pretty,  winsome 
face  from  me.  I  seek  to  help  thee." 

"  Then  thou  wilt  not  make  me  sign  my  name  in 
the  Black  Book  ?" 

"  No,  no;  I  know  of  no  book." 

"Wilt  thou  promise?"  persisted  Dorothy. 

"  I  wish  no  communion  with  the  witches.  I  scorn 
and  fear  their  practices."  The  old  woman  laughed 
her  discordant,  cackling  laugh.  "  I  promise  thee. 
If  old  Goody  is  all  thou  wilt  ever  have  to  fear  in  this 
world,  thou  needst  fear  naught." 

"Then  I  will  take  the  brew." 

Soon  Dorothy  fell  into  a  deep,  tranquil  sleep. 
When  she  awoke  the  cheerful  sunlight  was  flood 
ing  the  apartment,  but  she  felt  weak  and  her  head 
was  strange  and  dizzy.  These  were  the  premonitory 
symptoms  of  a  long  attack  of  fever  which  kept  her 
a  prisoner  in  the  little  house  through  the  pleasant  fall 
and  bleak  winter  and  even  into  the  early  spring. 

The  memory  of  those  weary,  miserable  days  never 


THE    WINTER    IN   THE    FOREST.  117 

passed  from  Dorothy's  mind  through  all  her  future 
life.  The  utter  loneliness  of  her  existence ;  the  ter 
rible  winter  storms  sweeping  through  the  desolate 
woods,  bending  the  monstrous  trees ;  then  the  fierce 
snows  and  the  bitter  cold ;  the  solitude,  the  appar 
ent  death  of  all  things  beautiful  in  nature,  taking 
their  rest,  wrapped  in  their  white  ice- draped  shrouds 
— all  these  things  combined  to  make  for  her  a  mem 
ory  of  horrors. 

Old  Goody  was  kind  and  patient,  and  soon  won 
Dorothy's  heart.  Her  dread  melted  away  before 
the  true  gentleness  of  the  old  woman's  disposition. 
But  the  apathy  that  had  fastened  itself  like  an  in 
cubus  upon  the  girl  increased  as  the  days  passed. 
She  could  find  in  her  heart  no  hope,  nor  even  a  wish 
to  form  plans  for  herself.  The  thought  of  returning 
to  Salem  was  abhorrent  to  her.  Tricked,  deceived, 
humiliated,  what  story  could  she  invent  that  would 
be  believed  or  condoned  ?  Ashamed  to  speak  of  her 
disastrous  flight  with  Sir  Grenville,  afraid  to  tell  of 
her  habitation  in  the  hut  of  the  dreaded  witch,  she 
was  indeed  in  a  most  perplexing  situation. 

One  day,  seated,  pale,  listless,  and  dispirited,  on 
the  old  settle  near  the  fire,  her  hands  hanging  before 
her,  a  hopeless,  despairing  look  in  her  blue  eyes, 


Il8  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

that  appeared  large  and  hollow  for  the  dark  circles 
surrounding  them,  her  thoughts  wandered  through 
the  wide  field  of  retrospection. 

Suddenly  there  burst  upon  her  a  torrent  of  self- 
reproach  and  remorse.  Unable  to  quell  the  tumult 
raging  within  her,  she  broke  out  excitedly  to  old 
Goody,  who  had  been  sitting  quietly  in  a  farther 
corner  of  the  room. 

"  Goody,  Goody,  speak  a  word  of  comfort  to  me ! " 
Dorothy  held  out  her  thin,  shaking  hands.  "  If  per 
chance  this  misery  that  I  now  endure  had  been  the 
work  of  others,  I  might  gain  strength  to  bear  it ;  but 
it  was  my  own  wretched  ambition,  my  deceit,  my 
discontent.  All  is  over  for  me — no  hope,  no  home, 
no  future!"  The  despairing  echo  of  the  sad  voice 
rang  through  the  room  in  a  cadence  of  deepest  regret. 

Old  Goody  arose  from  her  seat,  and  coming  to  the 
side  of  the  unhappy  girl,  looked  down  upon  her 
bowed  head. 

"  Methought,"  she  said,  "  in  time  thy  heart  would 
unburden  itself.  It  is  good  for  thee ;  yet  tell  me 
only  what  thou  wilt ;  be  cautious,  lest  thou  shouldst 
regret  it  later." 

Dorothy  did  not  reply  at  once,  then  she  started 
from  her  seat  and  said  impetuously : 


THE    WINTER    IN    THE    FOREST.  I  19 

"  I  will  tell  all,  Goody,  save  the  names ;  those  I 
will  withhold.  Then  give  me  thy  advice  and  truly 
from  thy  heart  tell  me  what  I  shall  do,  for  of  a  cer 
tainty  I  am  friendless  and  desolate." 

"  I  will  counsel  thee,"  said  Goody,  watching  the 
girl  intently  from  under  her  overhanging  brows. 

"  I  have  been  ever  thoughtless,"  Dorothy  began, 
"  hating  all  useful  occupations,  and  filled  with  dis 
content.  I  was  unhappy  in  my  home.  I  longed  for 
change,  for  a  wider  field.  Then  I  was  betrothed  to 
one  so  noble,  so  good,  so  true."  Dorothy  paused; 
her  lips  trembled.  "  I  broke  plight  with  him,  and 
for  this  wretched  bauble  thou  seest  on  my  neck,  this 
chain  of  golden  beads,  which  did  seem  to  me  to 
lighten  up  a  way  to  riches  and  honors.  I  fled  with 
one  who  deceived  me,  lied  to  me,  and  from  whom 
I  escaped  to  thee,  Goody,  that  night  I  came  through 
the  forest  to  thy  hut" 

"Is  that  all?"  said  Goody.  "Hast  thou  kept 
naught  back?  " 

"  I  have  told  thee  all,  save  one  thing."  As  she 
spoke  she  tore  the  beads  from  her  neck  and  threw 
them  angrily  from  her.  They  fell,  and  lay  like  a 
glittering  coiled  serpent  upon  the  floor.  "  I  do  de 
spise  and  hate  where  once  I  thought  I  loved,  and 


I2O  DOROTHY   THE    PURITAN. 

where  I  willingly  followed.  The  one  I  wronged  hath 
gained  a  great  revenge  :  he  hath  come  to  me  in  other 
guise.  In  the  darkness  of  the  night,  when  all  is  still 
save  the  wind,  I  hear  his  voice ;  he  steps  from  out 
the  shadows  that  surround  me ;  I  see  his  face  and 
gentle  smile  ;  then  I  awake  and  I  am  alone.  Never 
more  will  he  come  to  me  save  in  dreams.  With  my 
own  hand  have  I  opened  the  gate  that  guarded  my 
happiness  and  sent  it  forth.  I  stand  without,  where 
no  hope  is,  and  weep." 

"  Canst  thou  not  seek  his  forgiveness?  " 

"  No,  no ;  there  can  be  no  forgiveness  for  me. 
The  truth  would  but  separate  us  further.  I  deem 
my  misdeed  hath  in  his  eyes  all  the  enormity  of  a 
great  sin.  The  hand  of  God  hath  pointed  no  way, 
yet  retribution  hath  come  heavily  upon  me.  In  the 
bitterness  of  a  broken  spirit,  Goody,  I  have  learned 
to  love  the  one  I  wronged." 

"  Then  go  to  him ;  tell  him  all.  It  were  better 
than  the  agony  that  now  assails  thee.  My  advice 
is,  return  to  thy  home,  unburden  thy  secret,  and  per 
chance  a  kindly  Providence  will  cause  the  light  of 
peace  to  fall  once  more  upon  thee." 

"  I  fear  me  never  can  thy  prophecy  be  fulfilled. 
Thou  knowest  not,  Goody,  how  weak  are  my  spirit 


THE    WINTER    IN    THE    FOREST.  121 

and  will.  I  dread  lest  I  destroy  forever  all  hope 
by  telling  of  my  misdeed.  They  would  despise  and 
hate  me.  How  can  I  account  for  my  long  absence  ?  " 

"The  truth,  my  child,  the  truth,"  cried  Goody; 
"  it  is  thy  only  safeguard." 

"  I  have  no  faith  in  myself;  I  dare  not  return. 
If,  perchance,  I  could  not  bring  to  myself  the  effort 
of  will  needed  to  speak  the  truth,  my  soul  were  in 
deed  lost ;  and  if  I  speak  the  truth,  they  will  disown 
me  and  cast  me  forth.  I  shall  be  excommunicated 
from  the  meeting-house." 

"  It  is  e'en  now  drawing  near  the  spring,"  said 
Goody  earnestly  ;  "  there  is  no  time  for  thee  to  waste. 
Pray  constantly  for  strength.  Return,  return ;  be 
brave.  Tell  this  one  whom  thou  lovest  the  truth, 
and  all  will  yet  be  well  with  thee.  God  will  be  thy 
friend,  if  thou  wilt  but  do  what  is  right." 

"Ah,  that  I  could  take  thy  advice!"  Dorothy 
knelt  by  the  old  woman,  and  clasping  her  withered 
hand,  kissed  it.  "  Goody,  Goody,  I  am  grateful  to 
thee  for  thy  kindness.  I  wronged  thee  ;  thou  art  no 
witch.  Yet  in  thy  words  is  little  comfort  for  either 
way — a  truth  or  an  untruth — I  have  killed  my  hap 
piness." 

Dorothy,  full  of  deepest  concern  over  Goody's  ad- 


122  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

vice,  fell  that  night  into  deep  musings.  The  days 
were  lengthening;  the  first  faint  cries  of  the  birds 
were  again  heard  in  the  early  morning ;  the  winds 
blew  less  fiercely ;  the  snowdrops  peeped  forth  in 
sheltered  places,  and  the  sun's  rays  in  their  length 
ened  sojourn  gave  out  an  added  degree  of  warmth. 
The  words,  "There  is  no  time  for  thee  to  waste," 
echoed  like  a  funeral  knell  upon  the  jaded  nerves  of 
the  perplexed  girl.  No  time,  and  she  had  already 
wasted  four  months ;  it  was  even  now  the  month  of 
March. 

The  strong  desire  within  her  at  last  compelled  her 
to  form  a  settled  resolution.  She  would  return  to 
Salem ;  then,  if  she  could  summon  strength,  she 
would  tell  the  truth  and  abide  the  consequences. 
The  roads  were  not  yet  passable,  but  soon  would  be 
relieved  of  their  obstructions  of  ice  and  snow.  As 
soon  as  was  practicable,  the  journey  would  be  un 
dertaken. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

ELIZABETH    HUBBARD. 

THE  circumstances  of  Dorothy's  flight  were  nec 
essarily  entirely  a  matter  of  conjecture  among  the 
worthy  people  of  Salem.  There  were  no  means  of 
any  accurate  knowledge  of  her  whereabouts  being 
gained,  even  by  the  most  astute  of  village  gossips. 
The  absence  of  Grenville  was  not  commented  upon. 
He  had  left  the  place  some  time  previous  to  the  girl's 
flight  and  had  never  been  seen  in  her  company,  nor 
had  he  made  a  confidant  of  any  one,  having,  in  fact, 
rather  shunned  all  companionship  than  otherwise. 
The  women  had  discussed  the  unusual  affair  in  all 
its  bearings,  and  much  sympathy  had  been  expended 
upon  David  and  Martha  in  their  affliction. 

The  silent  dignity  maintained  by  Alden  Went- 
worth  forbade  all  curious  prying  into  the  sacredness 
of  the  trouble  that  had  come  upon  him.  If  he  grew 
thinner  and  paler,  if  his  face  became  fixed  in  a  set 
tled  look  of  melancholy,  and  if  his  dark,  somber  eyes 
appeared  at  times  to  rest  upon  some  vision  unseen 

123 


124  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

by  others,  those  others  dared  not  question  him.  In 
his  gentle  way  he  repelled  all  sympathetic  inter 
ference. 

"  I  tell  ye,  neighbors,"  said  a  brawny  dame  to 
her  friends  in  the  market-place  one  morning,  "  if 
the  wench  had  had  a  different  bringing  up  I  wot 
this  would  not  have  happened.  The  rod  was  ever 
spared  because  she  was  an  orphan  child ;  and  look 
ye,  what  good  hath  it  done  ?  My  policy  ever  was, 
strike  hard  and  long  when  the  subject  is  a  wayward 
one.  The  rod  is  wholesome  discipline ;  the  young 
require  its  usage." 

"  People  say,"  said  another,  "  that  she  hath  been 
taken  by  the  Indians.  Ye  all  know  she  was  ever 
wandering  alone  in  the  forests ;  she  had  no  fear  of 
the  dark  woods." 

"  I  believe  it  not,"  said  the  harsh,  deep  voice  of 
Elizabeth  Hubbard.  "  I  was  Dorothy's  friend  ;  I 
knew  her  better  than  others.  I  do  not  think  she 
hath  been  taken  by  the  Indians.  She  has  been — in 
my  poor  knowledge  I  say  this — bewitched  by  the 
black  man,  and  is  perchance  e'en  now  concocting 
evil  schemes  against  us.  She  ever  loved  to  be  alone  ; 
he  has  taken  her  unawares." 

The  women  looked  askance  at  each  other  as  these 


ELIZABETH    HUBBARD.  125 

words  were  spoken,  and  instinctively  lowered  their 
voices,  drawing  closer  together. 

"  What  have  ye  seen  or  heard,  Elizabeth?  "  they 
said. 

"  I  have  seen  naught  and  heard  naught;  I  speak 
but  on  conjecture."  Then  more  hurriedly  she  con 
tinued  :  "  Why^  did  Dorothy  ever  seek  the  woods 
alone?  She  was  never  God-fearing,  so  it  was  not 
for  prayer  and  meditation.  She  hath  been  taken 
unawares,  I  repeat,  and  been  forced  to  sign  her  soul 
away.  Satan  hath  claimed  her  for  his  own." 

As  Elizabeth  ceased  a  murmur  of  disapprobation 
rose  'clamorously  upon  the  air,  stilled  abruptly,  how 
ever,  by  the  sharp,  loud  voice  of  a  woman  who  had 
joined  the  chattering  group. 

"And  thou  art  her  friend  and  speakest  thus? 
Truly  a  firm  support  in  time  of  trouble,  a  good 
friend!"  said  the  new-comer  sarcastically  at  Eliza 
beth's  elbow. 

The  girl  turned  upon  the  speaker  a  glance  of 
deepest  hatred  and  malevolence,  her  dark  Spanish 
face  growing  white  with  passion. 

"  Speak  of  what  thou  knowest,  Neighbor  Holden. 
Dorothy  was  perchance  of  such  credit  to  thee  that 
thou  art  proud  to  speak  for  her;  a  bond,  forsooth, 


126  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

of  love  and  obedience  was  ever  between  thee  and 
her." 

"Thou  false  girl!"  cried  Martha  angrily.  "Thou 
dost  malign  her  memory  for  a  purpose.  I  have  eyes 
and  ears  to  see  and  hear.  Thou  dost  throw  thyself 
boldly  at  Alden  Wentworth.  Save  thy  pains:  he 
will  never  turn  from  Dorothy  to  thee^  thou  hast  too 
poor  weapons  at  thy  command.  And  let  me  tell 
thee,  Elizabeth,  traduce  not  the  memory  of  the 
woman  he  has  loved,  and  who  was  also  thy  friend. 
Build  not  thy  future  upon  so  false  a  foundation." 

"  I  scorn  thee,"  cried  the  angry  girl,  "  and  thy 
words !  I  shall  remember  them,  nevertheless,  sever 
fear.  Think  what  ye  will.  As  for  Mr.  Wentworth, 
I  wot  he  is  glad  to  be  rid  of  the  silly  thing,  who 
possessed  naught  but  a  fair  face.  Such  wounds  as 
his  do  quickly  heal."  Elizabeth  laughed,  and  when 
she  laughed  the  company  started,  so  hollow  and  un 
natural  was  the  sound. 

"  Go  thy  way,  go  thy  way,"  said  Martha.  "  I 
trust  Dorothy  is  in  a  better  world  than  this,  where 
she  is  safe  from  all  harm,  poor  little  motherless  girl ! 
Yet  thy  words  are  a  reproach  to  me.  I  was  not 
always  gentle  with  the  child.  Now  that  she  has 
gone  from  rne  I  know  I  was  too  harsh ;  but  no  one  in 


ELIZABETH    HUBBARD.  I2/ 

my  presence  shall  malign  her  memory."  She  left 
the  women  when  she  finished  speaking,  and  walked 
swiftly  through  the  market-place. 

Elizabeth  looked  after  her,  an  unfathomable  gleam 
in  her  angry  eyes.  Some  of  the  party  smiled  and 
glanced  mischievously  toward  the  scowling  girl. 

"  Thou  hast  received  a  right  just  reproof  from 
Mistress  Holden,"  said  one  of  the  women.  "  Me- 
thinks  God  hath  afflicted  her  sorely ;  it  is  not  for  us 
to  make  the  burden  heavier.  And  there  is  truth  in 
her  words.  Twice,  and  even  thrice,  hast  thou  been 
seen  on  the  village  streets  and  in  the  lanes,  and  not 
alone,  but  by  thy  side  Alden  Wentworth.  Say  I 
not  truly?"  turning,  as  she  spoke,  to  the  listening 
women. 

"Ay,  ay,"  cried  one,  "thou  sayest  truly.  Doro 
thy  is  forgotten.  Perchance  Elizabeth  doth  catch 
the  prize  on  the  rebound." 

They  all  laughed  loudly.  Elizabeth  blushed 
deeply,  the  color  spreading  into  a  flame  over  her 
swarthy  face. 

"  I  care  not  that  for  all  thy  envious  speech."  She 
snapped  her  fingers  as  she  spoke,  and  tossed  her 
head  defiantly.  "  Let  me  alone;  I  ask  not  thy  ad 
vice.  Tend  to  thy  own  business.  I  would  scorn 


128  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

to  be  called  one  with  the  gossips  of  the  market 
place." 

The  women  laughed  louder  and  more  derisively 
than  ever,  their  hands  upon  their  hips,  their  buxom 
forms  shaking  with  merriment.  During  the  general 
outcry  Elizabeth  escaped,  not  once  looking  back 
ward  as  they  shouted  sarcastic  jeers  after  her. 

Elizabeth  Hubbard  was  the  niece  of  Mrs.  Griggs, 
wife  of  the  physician  of  the  village ;  she  was  also  a 
member  of  his  household.  She  had  from  childhood 
been  possessed  of  a  peculiar,  erratic  temperament, 
which,  added  to  her  tropical  style  of  beauty,  made 
her  ever  prominent  in  all  gatherings  of  any  impor 
tance  that  took  place  in  Salem. 

She  was  steeped  to  the  utmost  in  the  beliefs  of 
the  age.  Witchcraft,  that  dread  calamity  that  had 
swept  over  the  seas  from  the  shores  of  Europe,  like 
a  hungry  vulture  was  hovering  with  claws  extended 
above  the  little  restful  hamlet  in  the  New  World. 
To  this  whimsical  creature  all  that  was  incomprehen 
sible,  all  that  lay  below  the  surface,  all  that  needed 
the  gentle  touch  of  faith  to  make  tangible  and  per 
fect,  savored  to  her  of  the  supernatural.  This  mor 
bid  disposition  throve  upon  the  not  unpalatable  food 
prepared  for  it. 


ELIZABETH    HUBBARD.  I2Q 

The  belief  in  witchcraft  was  sanctioned  by  many 
of  the  most  learned  men  of  those  times,  and,  under 
the  protection  of  the  clergy,  flourished  into  a  plant 
of  prodigious  growth. 

Elizabeth  was  emotional,  perhaps  what  in  this  day 
we  call  hysterical,  and  she  magnified  all  natu 
rally  explained  causes  into  spectral  results.  Her  dis 
torted  imagination  pictured  strange,  weird  sights, 
and  her  ears  heard  the  sound  of  spirit  voices  from 
the  other  world.  These  voices  spoke  to  her  from 
the  trees  and  plants;  they  whispered  in  the  air; 
they  floated  down  to  her  from  the  clouds.  By  in 
dulging  these  fancies  they  became  realities  to  her, 
and  she  spake  wondrous  things,  "  as  one  having  the 
voice  of  prophecy." 

She  had  within  her  nature  the  power  of  a  great 
passion,  also  the  strength  of  an  iron  will  that  nothing 
could  bend  or  sway,  but  hastened  on,  unheeding  all 
obstacles  to  the  desired  end.  Her  affection  for  Dor 
othy  had  been  firm  until  that  fatal  day  when  Alden 
Wentworth  placed  his  preference  upon  the  latter  and 
asked  her  to  be  his  wife.  Then  Elizabeth's  rage, 
disappointment,  and  despair  turned  the  stream  of 
love  into  a  new  channel.  Dorothy  was  hurled  aside 
as  an  impediment  to  her  own  desires. 


130  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

This  great  passion  did  not  die  when  the  young 
advocate's  choice  had  been  publicly  proclaimed ;  far 
from  it ;  it  grew  and  grew,  as  a  plant  grows  in  a 
noisome  soil.  At  times,  when  she  sat  with  Dorothy 
in  the  old  farmhouse  kitchen  and  watched  the  prep 
arations  going  forward  for  the  wedding,  murder 
was  in  her  heart,  if  a  wish  could  have  killed. 

» 

When  at  last  she  realized  that  the  field  \vas  once 
more  clear,  her  joy  leapt  beyond  all  control.  Her 
beauty  increased,  her  black  eyes  shone  resplendent. 
Woe  be  to  the  one  that  now  stepped  across  her 
path! 

The  pleasant  spring  days  were  not  far  distant, 
though  there  still  lingered  in  the  air  the  parting  chill 
of  winter,  and  the  wind  still  blew  strong  and  fierce 
from  the  north.  Snow  yet  lay  in  patches  in  shaded 
places  where  the  sun's  warmth  did  not  reach.  The 
trees  had  as  yet  put  forth  no  foliage,  and  their  bare 
gray  boughs  swayed  against  a  cold  sky. 

Alden  Wentworth  was  wandering  slowly  and  list 
lessly  across  the  fields  one  afternoon  toward  the 
latter  part  of  March.  He  had  been  calling  upon  a 
sick  friend,  and  on  returning  had  taken  a  secluded 
by-way,  seeking  to  be  free  from  molestation.  His 
mind  was  heavy.  He  envied  that  happy,  waiting 


ELIZABETH    HUBBARD.  131 

soul  he  had  just  left,  so  soon  to  be  freed  from  earthly 
grief  and  care,  so  soon  to  enter  into  rest  and  peace. 
He  was  thinking  of  Dorothy.  When  did  he  not 
think  of  her,  save  in  sleep,  and  then  he  dreamed  of 
her.  In  these  dreams,  from  which  he  dreaded  the 
awakening,  she  was  always  near  him. 

This  short  span  had  passed,  and  in  a  new  land, 
where  all  looked  shadowy  and  unreal,  she  was  by 
his  side.  It  was  as  if  their  parting  had  never  been ; 
in  the  semblance  of  two  blissful  disembodied  spirits, 
they  rejoiced  in  the  experience  of  a  perfect  unity. 

His  eyes  were  turned  toward  the  ground,  yet  he 
saw  not  the  wild-flowers  that  peeped  cautiously 
forth  from  sheltered  places  and  nodded  as  he  passed. 
This  pensive  reverie  was  so  absorbing,  that,  all  un 
awares,  he  came  upon  the  figure  of  a  woman.  Her 
head  was  bowed,  her  frame  shaken  with  sobs ;  she 
was  seated  upon  a  wooden  log  placed  against  a  gate 
way  that  led  to  the  field.  As  he  approached  she 
raised  her  head. 

"  Elizabeth,"  he  said  kindly,  "  why  art  thou  here? 
Art  thou  troubled?  Can  I  help  thee?" 

He  came  close  and  stood  looking  down  upon  her. 
These  ever-recurring  meetings  with  the  girl  had  not 
caused  any  suspicions  to  rise  in  his  mind ;  his  was 


132  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

not  a  suspicious  nature.  He  was  always  glad  to  see 
her ;  had  she  not  been  his  beloved's  chosen  friend  ? 
Perchance,  he  reasoned  with  himself  at  times,  when 
he  could  summon  strength  to  speak  of  Dorothy 
whom  better  could  he  address  than  Elizabeth,  her 
companion,  who  had  loved  her? 

"  I  am  in  sore  distress,  Mr.  Wentworth,"  said  Eliz 
abeth,  glancing  toward  him. 

He  started,  then  stepped  backward,  for  the  first 
time  conscious  of  the  wondrous  beauty  of  her  face. 
"  Thou  knowest,"  she  continued,  "  that  many  do 
accuse  me  and  say  I  do  dissemble  when  I  speak 
what  is  within  me.  This  doubt  of  my  sincerity  pains 
me.  What  object  could  I  have  in  feigning  this 
thing?" 

"  Heed  them  not,"  he  interposed,  "  for  surely  the 
spirits  of  the  air  are  amongst  us,  and  it  is  necessary 
for  us  to  be  zealous." 

"  Can  I  help  it  if  I  have  been  chosen  as  a  mouth 
piece  to  denounce  wickedness?" 

"  No,  surely  no,"  he  said. 

She  continued :  "  It  has  come  to  me  that  I  and 
others,  perchance,  do  feel  it  our  bounden  duty,  as 
the  great  call  is  within  us,  to  accuse  one  who  has 
been  accurst  this  many  a  day ;  whom  all  do  fear,  for 


ELIZABETH    HUBBARD.  133 

the  great  calamities  she  hath  power  to  bring  upon 
us.  A  witch  indeed  is  in  our  midst." 

"  I  deem  I  heard  thee  not  aright,"  cried  Went- 
worth  excitedly.  "  Thou  surely  wouldst  not  accuse 
one  of  witchcraft?  " 

"  I  ?  Not  I,  Mr.  Wentworth ;  I  accuse  no  one. 
The  voice  that  is  within  me  controls  my  words,  other 
wise  I  should  possess  no  power." 

"Of  whom  dost  thou  speak?"  he  demanded 
sternly. 

"  Of  one  Goody  Trueman,  the  forest  woman. 
Thou  knowest  her  well ;  all  Salem  knows  of  her,  and 
fears  her." 

The  young  man  drew  a  step  nearer  to  the  girl.  A 
shudder  passed  over  him  as  he  gazed  like  one  fas 
cinated  upon  this  woman  of  prophecy. 

"Yet  surely,"  he  said  earnestly,  "thou  wouldst 
not  desire  the  death  of  a  fellow-being!  Well  thou 
knowest  the  penalty  of  witchcraft.  Remember,  Eliz 
abeth,  thou  canst  never  return  that  which  thou  shalt 
take.  Accuse,  but  not  openly,  this  wretched  crea 
ture,  if  perchance  she  hath  had  counsel  with  those 
imps  that  do  infest  the  forest.  Let  her  bide  there ; 
molest  her  not.  Beware  lest  thou  fall  into  a  griev 
ous  error." 


134  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

"  I  tell  thee,  Mr.  Wentworth,"  the  girl  rose  ex 
citedly,  and  held  out  her  hands  before  her  with  a 
tragic  gesture,  "  I  will  not  rest  night  or  day  till  the 
power  that  is  within  me  shall  have  done  its  utmost 
to  rid  the  world  of  these  lost  beings,  who  have  sold 
their  souls  to  the  King  of  Darkness.  It  is  my  mis 
sion ;  I  shall  fulfill  it." 

Again  that  shudder  passed  over  Wentworth  ;  his 
lips  trembled  and  whitened.  "  Beware,  beware,  lest 
in  thy  zeal  thou  shalt  condemn  an  innocent  woman. 
A  life,  remember,  is  in  thy  hands." 

They  did  not  speak  for  some  moments  ;  then  Eliz 
abeth  broke  the  silence.  On  her  face  rested  a  cun 
ning  expression ;  she  read  well  the  man  before  her. 
"  I  have  not  dared,  ere  this;  to  speak  to  thee  of  a 

subject  near  my  heart  and  thine  ;  yet  methinks 

She  hesitated,  then  looked  over  the  cold,  somber- 
hued  meadows  and  bleak  landscape.  The  wind 
blew  her  black  hair  about  her  face  and  shook  her 
garments  fiercely.  She  clasped  her  cloak  tightly 
with  one  hand,  the  other  she  laid  timidly  on  the 
man's  arm,  glancing  shyly  up  into  his  face. 

He  started.  "  Thou  wouldst  speak  of  Dorothy," 
he  said  quickly. 

"Ay,"  she  replied. 


ELIZABETH    HUBBARD.  135 

"  What  of  her?"  he  demanded  expectantly. 
"  Hast  heard  aught?" 

"  Naught.  I  wished  only  that  I  might  speak  to 
thee  some  words  of  comfort.  She  is  as  dead  to  us 
forever.  Surely  a  chaplet  of  tears  and  kindly  words 
we  may  lay  upon  her  grave." 

Alden  Wentworth  groaned  aloud.  "  Say  not 
those  words,"  he  cried.  "There  is  ever  a  hope 
within  me  that  she  is  living,  and  that  some  day  I 
may  see  her  again." 

"And  thou  canst  forgive  her?"  Her  voice  was 
filled  with  tremulous  eagerness. 

"  She  hath  much  to  forgive  also,  Elizabeth.  Thou 
dost  not  know  all ;  I  will  tell  thee.  She  was  ever 
frank  with  me  ;  she  told  me  of  her  true  feelings.  No 
deceit  could  rest  within  her.  She  did  not  love  me, 
and  I,  in  my  blind  folly,  did  force  her  into  my  keep 
ing.  A  wild  dream  of  some  time  winning  her  heart 
controlled  my  wish  to  possess  her.  At  the  last,  she 
left  me  to  escape  a  life  which  she  could  not  accept. 
I  see  it  all,"  he  continued  dreamily,  as  though  he 
thought  himself  alone.  "  My  beloved,  I  have  driven 
thee  from  thy  home;  thou  art  a  wanderer  on  this 
earth.  Hast  thou  found  a  resting-place  ?  Art  thou 
safe,  my  Dorothy?"  He  turned  impetuously  to- 


136  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

ward  the  girl,  who  watched  him  sharply.  "  Now, 
Elizabeth,  thou  knowest  all  my  remorse  and  the 
vain  regrets  that  I  fear  will  ever  be  mine  while  I 
live." 

Elizabeth  did  not  reply ;  she  tapped  her  foot  im 
patiently  upon  the  ground,  and  threw  the  rebellious 
locks  of  heavy  hair  back  from  her  forehead.  Rage 
at  her  own  disappointment  and  scorn  for  what  she 
considered  his  weakness  were  struggling  for  the 
mastery,  but  she  quelled  them  by  an  effort  of  will. 

"  Dorothy,"  she  said  decidedly,  "  will  never  re 
turn.  Perchance  she  is  among  her  father's  people 
in  England,  or  with  the  Indians,  or  she  may  have 
been  forced  into  compact  with  the  spirits  of  the  air, 
and  may  be  now  in  their  keeping."  These  last 
words  she  spoke  slowly  and  cautiously. 

"The  latter  is  not  so,  that  I  swear,"  said  Went- 
worth  angrily.  "  No  imps  of  darkness  could  live 
beside  purity  such  as  hers.  No,  no,  Elizabeth.  And 
beware  lest  thou  speak  thus  to  any  save  myself; 
spread  not  this  calumny  abroad.  Yet  truth  may  be 
in  thy  words,  though  thou  know  it  not :  be  she  with 
the  spirits,  as  thou  sayest,  they  are  spirits  of  light  in 
God's  kingdom.  Let  us  hasten,"  he  concluded  ab 
ruptly,  "  the  night  is  coming ;  it  is  chill.  I  will  see 


ELIZABETH    HUBBARD.  137 

thee  to  thy  home ;  then  I  must  hasten  to  the  manse 
to  speak  with  Mr.  Parris.  I  have  many  important 
matters  to  transact  in  regard  to  this  same  trouble 
with  the  witches,  which  doth  engross  much  attention 
at  present,  having  even  reached  the  ears'  of  the  offi 
cials  in  Boston." 

"  Of  a  truth  there  is  much  to  discuss,"  she  replied 
eagerly,  keeping  step  beside  him  as  he  strode  across 
the  meadow.  "  Hast  heard  of  the  yellow-bird  that 
did  appear  to  Farmer  Morton  and  sit  perched  upon 
his  mantel,  and  which  when  he  strove  to  drive  it  off 
did  ope  its  mouth,  and 'from  its  tongue  darted  a 
flame  of  fire?  " 

Her  companion  trembled.  "  No,  I  heard  not  of 
it,  nor  do  I  believe  it.  This  terrible  thing  is  surely 
gaining  great  proportions.  Mr.  Parris  is  most  strong 
in  his  belief.  I  think  of  a  certainty  that  if  it  contin 
ues  he  will  take  a  hand  in  punishing  the  witches. 
Heed  thy  words,  fan  not  the  blaze ;  it  is  an  awful 
thing  to  take  away  human  life." 

"Yet  thou  believest?"  she  queried. 

"  In  part,"  he  replied,  "  not  in  all." 

After  Wentworth  had  bid  her  good-night  at  the 
door  of  her  home,  Elizabeth  did  not  enter  imme 
diately.  She  waited  until  the  echo  of  his  footsteps 


138  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

had  died  away,  then  descended  the  steps  of  the 
porch  and  repaired  to  the  garden.  The  night  was 
cold  and  bleak  ;  no  moon  or  stars  were  visible ;  the 
wind  moaned  dismally  among  the  trees.  But  she 
heeded  not  the  darkness  or  the  solitude,  for  the  fire 
of  passionate  grief  that  burned  within  her.  She 
clasped  and  unclasped  her  hands  as  she  stood  in  the 
garden  path,  her  rigid  outline  looming  like  some 
specter  of  the  night  above  the  shrubs  that  bordered 
the  walk. 

"  I  will  not  give  him  up,"  she  muttered.  "  He 
has  been  restored  to  me  from  one  who  did  not  value 
him.  She  will  never  return — she  is  dead.  Why 
should  I  fear?  Though  I  make  no  plot,  his  heart 
must  turn  to  me.  Can  a  merciful  Providence  have 
placed  this  love  within  me,  to  requite  me  not?  By 
the  very  power  of  my  nature  I  will  win  him,  if — if — 
she  return  no  more." 


CHAPTER   VIII. 
THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN. 

OUR  New  England  ancestors  had  undergone  great 
persecutions  in  their  homes  beyond  the  seas,  and 
had  suffered  many  privations.  These,  added  to  the 
joyless  existence  that  was  their  lot  for  many  years 
after  landing  on  the  shores  of  the  New  World, 
caused  them  to  become  gloomy  and  taciturn,  ever 
taking  a  depressing  view  of  life.  Their  surround 
ings  tended  to  increase  this  romantic,  melancholy 
disposition — hence  their  credulity  regarding  super 
natural  agencies. 

The  country  was  too  wild  and  unexplored  for 
much  travel,  the  hills  and  valleys  being  covered  with 
dense  forests,  whose  somber  shades  appeared  to  this 
superstitious  people  to  be  inhabited  by  witches,  de 
mons,  black  imps,  and  all  horrible  beings  possessed 
of  unnatural  powers  to  work  harm  to  God-fearing 
people.  This  condition  of  mind  easily  grew  into 
fanaticism  when  fostered  by  the  accounts  that  came 

i39 


140  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

across  the  seas  from  Europe,  of  the  burning,  hang 
ing,  and  torturing  of  witches  for  their  evil  deeds. 

On  a  certain  evening  Martha  and  David  were 
seated  together,  as  usual,  in  the  kitchen.  David 
leaned  his  head  against  the  back  of  his  high  wooden 
chair,  his  stern  countenance  clouded  by  a  shade  of 
deep  thoughtfulness.  Martha  sat  near  the  window, 
watching  the  last  lingering  glow  reflected  from  the 
distant  clouds  where  the  sun  had  descended  in  a 
blaze  of  glory.  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  and 
her  hands  trembled  as  she  brushed  the  drops  away. 
Lying  across  her  lap  was  a  little  child's  gar 
ment. 

"  David,"  she  said  presently,  "  I  am  sad  and  con 
science-stricken.  When  I  look  far  across  the  fields, 
on  such  a  night  as  this,  to  the  west,  I  seem  to  see 
the  opened  gate  of  heaven ;  and  then  a  great  terror 
falls  upon  me,  lest  by  my  hand  that  gate  has  been 
closed  to  Dorothy.  Ah,  David,  David!  where  is 
our  sister's  child?  Did  I  do  right  by  the  little  one? 
Did  I  do  all  my  duty?  "  she  concluded  piteously. 

"Torture  not  thyself,  Martha;  thou  didst  all  thy 
duty.  The  child  possessed  her  father's  headstrong 
will ;  it  proved  too  great  for  thee  ;  thou  couldst  not 
gainsay  it.  I  have  forgiven  the  child.  I  pray  she 


THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN.      141 

be  safe  with  God.  Yet  I  reproach  not  myself.  I 
did  what  I  thought  was  best." 

"  No,  no,"  she  wailed,  "  I  did  not  all  my  duty.  I 
did  ever  thwart  her  in  all  gayety  and  display.  I  did 
her  a  wrong ;  she  was  but  young.  Then  worse,  far 
worse  than  all,  I  did  force  the  betrothal  to  Alden 
Went  worth." 

"  It  is  past,"  said  David  solemnly,  "  we  can  do  no 
more.  We  must  submit  in  all  humility.  Methinks 
this  terrible  thing  that  hath  come  upon  Salem  doth 
drive  at  times  all  thoughts  of  Dorothy  from  my  mind. 
Thou  hast  heard  of  the  three  women  that  have  been 
accused  of  witchcraft,  and  are  to  be  tried  in  the 
meeting-house  this  day  two  weeks?" 

"Ay,  I  have  heard,"  replied  Martha  scornfully. 
"  I  heed  not  such  folly.  Such  trials  do  but  disgrace 
the  meeting-house." 

The  kitchen  was  quite  dark  now,  save  for  the  pale 
light  that  fell  from  the  crescent  of  the  new  moon 
hanging  above  the  hills,  its  reflection  resting  in  a 
curved  line  of  silver  upon  the  floor.  "  David,  look ! " 
As  she  spoke  she  held  out  before  her  the  child's  dress 
that  had  been  lying  across  her  lap.  "  The  little  robe 
that  Dorothy  wore  on  that  long  voyage  from  Eng 
land — the  last  thing  her  mother  made.  I  found  it 


142  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

to- day  in  the  garret  chest.  The  child  hath  been  in 
my  mind  all  this  day.  Methinks  I  see  her  now,  a 
babe,  a  little  maid,  and  then  a  beauteous  woman ; 
for,  David,  thou  knowest  none  could  compare  with 
our  niece  in  all  the  village  of  Salem." 

"  Ay,  thou  sayest  truly,  Martha." 

"  I  shall  never  cease  in  this  world  to  sorely  reproach 
myself  for  her  misdeeds.  I  was  too  hard  with  her. 
Perhaps  in  time,  had  I  been  more  lenient,  this  will 
fulness  would  have  lived  out  its  day,  then  left  her. 
Yet  as  I  bent  over  the  old  chest  this  morn,  I  did  say, 
'  I  will  be  kinder,  more  motherly,  and  I  will  forgive 
all,  if  a  merciful  God  shall  ever  restore  her  to  us.'  ' 

"  Thou  mayst  have  much  to  forgive,"  he  said 
gloomily. 

"  I  lay  no  account  on  that.  She  was  never  wicked  ; 
naught  but  foolish  and  thoughtless.  I  did  expect 
that  William  Grey's  daughter  could  be  a  pattern  of 
excellence ;  my  years  should  have  taught  me  more 
wisdom  than  that." 

"  He  was  a  riotous,  rollicking  good-for-naught," 
said  David  impatiently,  "  ever  ready  with  his  un 
seemly  song  and  his  mug  of  spiced  wine ;  truly  one 
of  Satan's  most  zealous  followers.  Yet  let  him  bide. 
I  care  not  to  talk  of  him  ;  he  has  gone  to  his  account. 


THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN.      143 

The  thoughts  that  stir  within  me  are  of  such  dread 
and  fear,  they  drive  all  else  from  me." 

"What  dost  thou  mean?"  cried  Martha.  She 
dropped  the  little  dress  upon  the  floor,  and  drawing 
nearer  to  her  brother  peered  down  into  his  face. 
David  rose  quickly  from  his  seat. 

"  I  mean  that  the  dread  scourge  of  wickedness  is 
amongst  us ;  that  the  Evil  One  hath  sent  his  mes 
sengers  before  him  in  the  persons  of  these  hags  that 
do  infest  the  forest  and  have  signed  their  names  in 
his  Black  Book — lost  souls,  doing  the  will  of  their 
master." 

He  walked  excitedly  to  the  window,  looked  forth 
an  instant,  then  retraced  his  steps  and  stopped  in  the 
center  of  the  room,  where  the  faint  light  of  the  moon 
fell.  "  Light  the  candles ;  I  like  not  this  gloom. 
They  may  e'en  now  have  sent  their  imps  to  molest 
us.  These  agents  like  well  the  darkness.  Didst 
not  hear  a  noise  of  wings  without  the  door,  or  in 
yonder  chimney?  Thou  knowest  they  hold  their 
orgies  when  the  moon  is  in  the  first  quarter." 

Martha  silently  lighted  the  candles  upon  the 
mantel-shelf,  then  turned  abruptly  to  her  brother,  her 
hands  upon  her  hips,  her  sturdy  frame  held  erect. 

"  I  am  ashamed  of  thee,  David  Holden !      Thou 


144  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

foolish,  credulous  creature!  And  thou  talkst  of 
gossiping  women,  who,  ye  say,  have  not  sense  to 
question  and  find  the  truth  of  a  story.  I  tell  thee, 
give  me  a  man  for  a  fool  when  a  silly  yarn  is  afloat." 

David  looked  darkly  upon  her,  the  candle-light 
flickering  over  his  determined  features.  "  Martha, 
it  were  better  for  thee  if  thou  didst  hold  thy  peace 
upon  this  subject.  As  there  is  a  heaven  above  us, 
the  authorities  will  punish  these  hags,  who  do  follow 
the  devil's  teachings." 

"  If  they  punish  those  poor  old  babbling  creatures, 
\vhose  minds  have  gone  astray,  I  give  not  an  atom 
for  their  opinion,  or  for  their  knowledge  of  the  ways 
of  justice." 

"  Thou  wast  ever  a  rebellious,  stubborn  woman, 
Martha.  Bridle  thy  tongue,  I  warn  thee!"  He 
went  to  the  door  while  speaking,  and  stood  some 
moments  looking  out  into  the  darkness.  Martha 
watched  him  earnestly  a  moment,  then  folded  the 
little  robe  and  ascended  the  garret  stairs  to  replace 
it  in  the  chest.  Many  tear-stains  rested  on  the  fine 
embroidery  of  the  dainty  garment  as  she  laid  it  rev 
erently  away  with  her  rolls  of  best  linen. 

"  My  poor  little  Dorothy ! "  she  sighed.  Then  she 
locked  the  chest,  and  seating  herself  amidst  the  lum- 


THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN.      145 

her  in  the  garret  she  wept  softly  for  the  absent 
one. 

While  this  conversation  was  taking  place  in  the 
farmhouse,  a  girl,  footsore  and  pale,  with  tattered 
garments  and  torn  shoes  from  which  her  feet  pro 
truded,  was  making  her  way  cautiously  along  the 
edge  of  the  woods  that  skirted  the  settlement. 
Dorothy  had  walked  all  day  since  early  dawn. 
Now,  as  the  night  drew  nigh,  she  was  creeping 
stealthily  through  the  underbrush  toward  her  old 
home.  The  thoughts  in  her  mind  were  sorrowful  in 
the  extreme.  Look  which  way  she  would,  she  al 
ways  returned  to  the  inevitable  question,  "  Shall  I 
tell  the  truth,  or  shall  I  withhold  it?  "  Around  this 
she  fluttered  with  indecision  and  doubt.  She  knew 
what  was  right,  yet  feared  that  result  which  her 
experience  led  her  to  expect  from  the  opinion  of  her 
townspeople.  The  reply  that  always  came  with  the 
hollow  note  of  despair  to  her  sad  communings,  "  If 
you  tell  the  truth  they  will  spurn  you  and  cast  you 
forth,"  caused  her  to  tremble. 

Her  thoughts  hovered  as  the  pendulum  of  a  clock, 
back  and  forth,  back  and  forth,  with  no  resting-place. 
The  great  love  that  had  arisen  within  her  from  the 
ashes  of  so  dire  an  experience  would  not  sleep  or  rest. 


146  DOROTHY   THE    PURITAN. 

She  could  not  summon  the  moral  strength  to  cast  it 
forth  and  bid  it  die.  "  No,  no,"  she  murmured,  as 
she  slowly  wandered  over  the  rough  fields,  "  I  can 
not  tell  them — I  cannot  tell  him.  He  is  nothing  to 
me  now.  Yet  his  thoughts  of  me  may  be  tender. 
If  I  speak  the  truth,  that  I  did  fly  with  one  who  de 
ceived  me,  I  could  not  look  upon  his  face  and  live." 

When  she  neared  the  outskirts  of  the  farm,  she 
paused  to  rest  upon  a  bank  that  rose  on  one  side  of 
a  newly  plowed  meadow.  It  was  a  glorious  night : 
the  stars  twinkled  and  flashed  in  a  nearly  cloudless 
sky ;  the  crescent  had  crept  lower,  until  now  it  hung 
just  above  the  distant  line  of  sea ;  the  feeble  piping 
of  a  few  early  spring  birds  sounded  from  the  neigh 
boring  trees. 

The  little  hamlet  lay  almost  in  darkness,  save 
where  here  and  there  a  stray  glimmer  shone  from 
some  cottage  window.  Dorothy  glanced  wistfully 
up  into  the  heavens.  Wondrous  stories  came  to  her 
memory — stories  she  had  heard  in  childhood,  of 
happy  homes  far  away  in  each  bright  star.  If  some 
angel  spirit  would  but  descend  and  bid  her  follow, 
how  gladly  she  would  obey!  Suddenly  a  cloud 
came  blowing  up  from  the  north,  and  a  soft  wind 
fanned  the  girl's  face. 


THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN.     147 

Dorothy  felt  herself  seized  with  an  unaccountable 
desire  for  a  sign  from  above  that  might  point  her  the 
right  course  to  pursue  in  her  present  great  dilemma. 
She  rested  her  back  against  the  soft,  damp  earth  that 
composed  the  bank,  and  clasping  her  hands  upon 
her  breast,  raised  her  head  and  gazed  intently  into 
the  radiant  sky. 

"  If  that  little  cloud  that  comes  blowing  from  the 
north,"  she  said  aloud,  "  doth  cross  the  moon  and 
dim  its  light,  I  deem  it  a  sign  that  should  I  tell  the 
truth,  all  the  light  in  my  life  would  depart;  then  I 
will  not  speak.  If  it  passes  by  the  moon,  then  I  will 
tell  the  truth,  and  take  it  for  an  omen  that  the  light 
shall  still  shine  for  me  again."  With  the  relief  of 
having  the  decision  made  by  an  agency  outside  her 
own  will — a  voice  from  heaven,  as  she  had  chosen  to 
interpret  it — she  rose  from  her  low  position,  and 
stood  watching  the  oncoming  of  the  cloud. 

There  was  a  weird  fascination  in  thus  having 
nature  indicate  what  fate  still  held  in  store  for  her. 
On  came  the  cloud,  driven  swiftly  before  the  wind. 
At  first  it  appeared  to  avoid  the  moon,  and  shifted 
in  an  uncertain  manner;  then  it  broke  slightly. 
Suddenly  the  wind  rose  to  greater  volume,  and  with 
a  sound  like  the  beating  of  the  surf  upon  a  rocky 


148  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

shore,  it  whispered  hoarsely  among  the  trees  in  the 
not  far  distant  woods. 

The  scattered  drifts  of  clouds  formed  into  somber 
masses ;  in  an  instant  the  light  of  the  moon  became 
obscured,  and  the  beauty  of  the  night  was  dimmed. 
Dorothy,  her  hands  clasped  before  her  face,  her  form 
shaking  from  the  reaction  which  came  to  her,  burst 
into  a  passionate  flood  of  tears  and  leaned  her  head 
down  upon  the  dewy  bank  of  earth.  The  moon 
went  down  enveloped  in  clouds  and  mist. 

The  hours  of  the  night  passed  slowly  by.  Doro 
thy  arose  and  continued  her  way  over  the  few  re 
maining  fields  that  lay  between  her  and  the  farm 
house.  She  walked  with  a  buoyant  tread.  Had 
not  fate  decided  for  her?  Was  she  not  free?  A 
sign  had  come  from  heaven  :  by  that  sign  she  would 
guide  her  fate.  Once  more  her  life  was  clear  and 
open ;  the  reproachful  memories  of  her  past  follies 
were  dead,  buried,  and  forgotten.  No  one  need 
ever  know.  She  would  be  silent ;  her  ingenuity 
would  help  her  to  invent  some  plausible  tale  that 
would  be  accepted,  and  no  witness  could  disprove 
her  statement. 

Presently  she  noticed  a  dark  object  coming  toward 
her  over  the  meadows.  The  object  approached 


THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN.      149 

slowly  and  cautiously,  keeping  its  head  toward  the 
ground  and  growling  ominously.  "  Old  Rollo !  Old 
Rollo ! "  called  Dorothy  in  a  low  voice.  "  Come  here, 
good  fellow,  come  here." 

The  farm  dog,  hearing  her  voice,  hastened  his 
pace,  and  was  soon  careering  about  her  with  dumb 
expressions  of  delight  and  welcome.  She  threw 
her  arms  about  his  shaggy  neck,  and  laid  her  face 
close  against  his.  "  I  need  not  lie  to  thee,  good 
fellow,"  ^he  said  tearfully.  "  I  could  tell  thee  all, 
and  thou  wouldst  think  no  less  of  me."  The  dog 
looked  up  into  her  face  and  whined.  "  It  is  because 
thou  hast  no  mind  to  judge  that  thou  lovest  me.  I 
would  that  others  were  as  kind  as  thou  art,  poor 
dumb  beast !  Never,  never  wilt  thou  turn  reproach 
ful  eyes  on  thy  old  friend  Dorothy." 

The  dog  thus  appealed  to  drew  closer  to  her,  and 
with  low  murmurs  of  delight  and  affection  licked  her 
hands,  and  laid  his  paw  in  her  lap  as  he  nestled  to 
her  side.  "Come,"  she  continued,  "protect  me. 
They  will  not  drive  thee,  a  dog,  away.  They  may 
then  have  pity  upon  me,  a  poor  human  penitent." 

The  two  united  friends  walked  over  the  little  dis 
tance  remaining  of  the  Holden  property.  All  was 
very  still  around  the  house ;  no  lights  were  seen,  for 


150  DOROTHY   THE    PURITAN. 

the  hour  was  late,  and  all  were  asleep.  Disheart 
ened  and  frightened,  Dorothy  seated  herself  on  the 
settle  in  the  porch,  and  with  the  dog  close  by  her 
side  she  decided  to  wait  until  morning.  In  a  short 
space  of  time  she  had  fallen  asleep.  It  was  a  deep, 
dreamless  sleep,  produced  by  extreme  exhaustion 
and  excitement. 

Aunt  Martha  rose  early  the  following  morning,  as 
was  her  usual  custom,  and  thinking  she  heard  a  noise 
in  the  porch,  went  to  the  window  that  overlooked 
the  front  door.  Her  eyes  fell  upon  Dorothy,  still 
fast  asleep,  her  listless  attitude  resembling  the  deep 
repose  of  death.  The  dog  looked  up  and  whined 
when  the  window  above  his  head  opened,  but  he  did 
not  desert  his  charge.  In  another  moment  two  ex 
cited  old  people  came  hurriedly  down  the  creaking 
staircase.  "  Come  to  the  back  door,"  whispered 
Martha.  "Do  not  frighten  her;  let  her  awaken 
naturally." 

When  Dorothy  opened  her  blue  eyes  they  rested 
upon  the  happy  faces  of  her  aunt  and  uncle. 
"Aunt  Martha!"  Dorothy's  voice  was  soft  with 
wistful  pleading.  "Forgive,  forgive!"  She  could 
say  no  more,  but  held  out  her  wasted  arms. 

"  My  little   girl,"  said  Aunt   Martha,  "  thou   art 


THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN.     151 

welcome  home!"  and  kissed  her.  Supported  be 
tween  the  two,  the  wanderer  entered  the  farmhouse. 

And  so  the  prodigal  was  received  with  joy,  and 
the  fatted  calf  was  killed  for  the  penitent.  Yet  she 
was  only  half  a  penitent,  for  with  remorse  came  not 
confession. 

Her  aunt  and  uncle  fully  believed  her  story. 
She  had  left  her  home,  she  said,  for  very  weariness 
and  hatred  of  her  existence ;  also  on  account  of  the 
forced  bond  of  her  betrothal.  She  had  wandered 
in  the  forest,  endeavoring  to  reach  Boston,  but  had 
strayed  from  the  bridle  path  and  lost  her  way.  At 
length  she  had  been  taken  in  by  a  kindly  woman, 
a  wood-cutter's  widow,  living  in  the  heart  of  the 
woods,  who  had  nursed  her  through  a  long  attack  of 
fever.  Then  she  had  for  a  time  feared  to  return, 
but  at  last,  hoping  for  forgiveness,  had  summoned 
the  courage. 

The  old  life  was  now  resumed,  save  that  the  still 
small  voice  was  never  silent  in  the  ears  of  the  mis 
taken  girl.  For  some  days  she  refused  to  leave  the 
farmhouse,  making  her  aunt  and  uncle  promise  that 
they  would  not  yet  tell  in  Salem  of  her  return. 

"Not  even  Alden  Wentworth  ?  "  asked  Martha. 
"  Methinks  it  is  but  his  due." 


152  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

"No,  no,"  said  Dorothy  with  a  shudder,  "not 
him ;  I  must  have  strength  to  meet  him.  I  am  still 
but  weak." 

Martha  was  puzzled  at  this  repugnance  to  meet 
one  to  whom  she  had  been  so  indifferent.  "  Why, 
Dorothy,  child,  thou  wert  ever  careless  of  his  opin 
ion.  He  cannot  harm  thee,  and  surely  he  will  not 
reproach  thee,  save  in  his  capacity  of  deacon  to  one 
of  the  erring  flock.  He  is  a  proud  man ;  he  will 
never  seek  to  force  himself  upon  thee  again.  Fear 
not." 

"  Is  he,  then,  so  indifferent  to  me?  "  asked  Doro 
thy  humbly.  "  Have  I  offended  him  past  all  for 
giveness?  " 

Her  aunt  gave  her  a  sharp,  curious  glance.  "  Of 
that  I  cannot  say.  He  doth  not  speak  of  thee. 
There  is  one  whom  gossips  say  he  hath  been  seen 
much  with.  I  set  no  store,  however,  on  the  idle 
talk  of  the  women." 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  Dorothy,  "that  seeks  so 
soon  to  fill  my  place?"  There  was  a  touch  of  bit 
terness  in  her  voice. 

"  Elizabeth  Hubbard,"  replied  her  aunt. 

"Surely  Elizabeth  can  be  no  friend  of  mine!" 
She  spoke  angrily. 


THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN.      153 

"  Keep  thy  temper,  Dorothy,  keep  thy  temper. 
When  thou  throwest  precious  goods  away,  some 
there  will  ever  be  to  pick  them  up.  But  I  have 
said  I  would  not  reproach  thee,  and  I  never  will." 

"  Aunt  Martha,"  replied  she  solemnly,  "  what  we 
possess  we  often  set  no  store  by.  What  we  lose,  of 
a  surety  that  we  do  prize,  but  we  do  hate  the  one 
who  profits  by  what  we  recklessly  have  lost." 

Aunt  Martha  drew  near  her  niece,  and  with  a  ten 
derness  unusual  in  one  of  her  self-contained  disposi 
tion,  kissed  her  gently  upon  her  brow.  "  Dorothy, 
I  fear  thou  hast  lost  the  greatest  blessing  of  thy  life. 
Heaven  help  thee  if  the  love  which  it  was  once  thy 
right  to  feel  has  come  to  thee  too  late !  I  fear  thou 
hast  killed  it  in  that  other  one  with  thine  own  hand." 

Dorothy  threw  herself  upon  her  knees,  laid  her 
head  against  the  old  kitchen  settle,  and  sobbed. 
"  He  might  have  remembered  me  a  little  while,"  she 
said  brokenly.  "  Forgotten  in  a  few  short  months-, 
and  he  said  he  truly  loved  me!" 

"  Hush,  child.  I  know  not  that  he  has  forgotten ; 
'tis  perchance  but  idle  gossip."  As  Martha  spoke 
she  stroked  the  bright  brown  hair.  "  Surely,"  she 
said,  "  thy  misdeed  has  brought  its  punishment." 


CHAPTER    IX. 

THE     WITCHES. 

THE  strange  and  terrible  delusion  of  witchcraft 
had  fallen  upon  Salem  with  great  virulence.  Horri 
ble  tidings  had  found  their  way  from  distant  lands, 
of  the  wholesale  destruction  of  victims  accused  of 
this  crime.  In  England,  France,  and  Germany  was 
this  superstition  prevalent.  Witches  were  burned  by 
hundreds  and  thousands.  This  belief  did  not  confine 
itself  to  the  poor  or  illiterate ;  many  of  the  highest 
in  all  lands  shared  in  the  error  of  the  day. 

In  England  one  Matthew  Hopkins  assumed  the 
title  of  Witch-finder,  and  invented  horrible  tests 
whereby  to  vindicate  his  claims  to  such  an  exalted 
position.  One  of  his  most  cruel  proofs  was  this : 
after  capturing  the  supposed  witch,  to  tie  the  thumb 
of  the  right  hand  to  the  great  toe  of  the  left  foot, 
then  proceed  to  drag  the  poor  wretch  through  a  pond. 
If  the  frightened  creature  floated,  there  could  be  no 
doubt  whatever  that  she  was  a  witch — and  she  al 
ways  floated !  Through  the  instrumentality  of  Hop- 

'54 


THE    WITCHES.  155 

kins  it  is  said  that  nearly  sixty  persons  lost  their  lives 
by  fire  and  hanging. 

Our  ancestors  believed  that  a  witch  had  willingly 
given  her  soul  and  body  into  the  keeping  of  the 
devil :  she  had  signed  her  name  in  his  great  Black 
Book.  This  ceremony  accomplished,  she  was  his 
forever.  He,  in  return  for  her  allegiance  to  him-and 
her  work  in  his  behalf,  endowed  her  with  wondrous 
and  supernatural  powers,  whereby  she  might  do  harm 
to  all  she  wished,  and  to  all  who  opposed  her  will. 

These  supposed  witches  had  most  marvelous  gifts 
conferred  upon  them  by  their  master:  they  could 
raise  a  storm  at  sea ;  they  were  given  unusual 
physical  strength ;  they  could  cause  a  tornado, 
fire  churches,  pinch,  throttle,  cause  disease,  destroy 
reason,  and  even  take  human  life.  Their  actual 
presence  was  not  considered  necessary  for  the  con 
summation  of  these  terrible  evils ;  an  apparition  or 
shape,  sent  in  the  form  of  some  animal — a  dog,  cat, 
toad,  spider,  or  the  ever-popular  yellow-bird — was 
sufficient  for  the  success  of  their  undertakings. 
These  witches  were  supposed  to  go  through  weird, 
uncanny  dances  with  their  imps  and  ungodly  follow 
ers,  under  the  forest  trees. 

Another  favorite  pastime  consisted  of  swift  flights 


156  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

through  the  midnight  air,  generally  astride  a  broom 
stick,  their  attendants  from  the  lower  world  following 
them  with  fiendish  cries  and  hideous  laughs. 

When  the  good  people  in  those  old  days  of  New 
England  heard  strange,  unaccountable  noises  on 
blowy  nights,  in  the  chimney  or  around  their  houses, 
they  did  not  rise  and  with  candle  in  hand  investigate 
the  cause ;  instead,  they  shuddered  and  lay  still, 
whispering  with  bated  breath,  "  The  witches  are 
abroad  to-night ;  they  are  riding  above  the  house 
tops  ! "  The  mother  clasped  her  little  one  closer,  and 
murmured,  "  God  keep  thee,  my  child!" 

During  two  preceding  winters,  those  of  1691  and 
1692,  a  society,  or  rather  a  circle,  as  it  was  called, 
consisting  mostly  of  young  girls,  had  been  formed  in 
Salem.  This  circle  appears  to  have  had  for  its  first 
object  amusement,  the  young  people  of  those  days 
sadly  lacking  any  diverting  pastimes.  Gradually, 
however,  these  evening  meetings,  which  took  place 
principally  in  the  house  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Parris,  as 
sumed  a  more  serious  aspect,  and  instruction  in  the 
black  art  became  one  of  the  main  features  of  the  en 
tertainment.  Mr.  Parris  had  in  his  employ  two  ser 
vants,  or  rather  slaves,  a  man  and  his  wife,  named 
John  Indian  and  Tituba. 


THE    WITCHES.  157 

These  slaves  Mr.'  Parris  had  brought  with  him  from 
the  Spanish  Indies.  They  were  steeped  in  witch 
craft,  and  understood  many  of  the  horrible  practices 
of  the  ignorant  tribe  from  which  they  came.  They 
instructed  the  circle,  and  kept  it  well  supplied  with 
material  calculated  to  inflame  the  imaginations  of  the 
already  intensely  excited  young  people.  The  result 
of  all  this  conjuring  was  that  a  species  of  hysteria 
seized  upon  the  girls,  and  their  antics  soon  began  to 
give  evidence — according  to  the  popular  idea — that 
they  were  bewitched. 

Elizabeth  Hubbard's  erratic  temperament  had 
made  her  from  the  start  a  prominent  actor  in  this 
magic  circle.  She  now  became  possessed  of  the 
marvelous  power  of  interpreting  the  spell  of  the 
witches ;  at  least  she  claimed  this  honor. 

The  good  people  of  Salem,  at  first  surprised,  soon 
became  alarmed  at  the  curious  performances  of  the 
members  of  the  society.  They  finally  consulted  the 
village  doctor. 

He  was  nonplused,  read  some  learned  documents, 
shook  his  head  gravely,  declared  the  disease  unknown 
to  science,  and  considered  the  girls  certainly  under 
the  dreaded  spell  of  witchcraft.  They  went  through 
some  of  their  antics  for  his  benefit,  creeping  under 


158  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

chairs,  uttering  piercing  cries,  falling  into  convulsions, 
laughing  and  crying,  until  the  poor,  bewildered  old 
man  fled  in  dismay. 

The  afflicted  children,  as  they  were  called,  went 
triumphantly  on  their  course,  and  were  looked  upon 
with  sympathy  and  tenderness  by  the  community  at 
large.  At  last,  intoxicated  by  the  exalted  position 
they  now  sustained  in  the  village,  they  grew  bolder, 
and  openly  accused  three  poor  old  helpless  women 
of  having  bewitched  them.  From  this  small  and 
apparently  innocent  source  sprang  the  terrible  tor 
rent  that  swept  so  many  blameless  lives  into  eternity. 

When  Dorothy  returned  to  Salem  it  was  to  find 
her  old  home  given  over  to  the  wildest  confusion. 
The  daily  work  was  neglected,  the  fields  were  not 
sown,  while  the  people  gathered,  with  bated  breath 
and  grave  countenances,  upon  the  streets,  to  discuss 
this  appalling  condition  that  had  come  amongst  them. 
Three  old  women  lay  terrified  in  prison,  awaiting 
their  trials,  on  the  testimony  of  the  accusing  girls. 

Alden  Wentworth  had  kept  aloof  as  much  as  pos 
sible  from  the  general  alarm  and  confusion  :  not  that 
he  was  an  unbeliever  in  witchcraft — that  \vould  have 
been  an  impossibility  in  such  an  age,  with  such  sur 
roundings  and  teachings,  to  say  nothing  of  natural 


THE    WITCHES.  159 

temperament.  He  did  not  believe,  however,  in  the 
power  of  human  agency  to  discover  a  witch  ;  and  he 
predicted  that  many  grievous  mistakes  would  follow 
a  trial  by  law  of  such  an  anomalous  crime.  He  had 
faith  in  the  efficacy  of  prayer  and  good  deeds  to 
avert,  and  in  time  to  overcome,  this  fearful  affliction ; 
but  he  advised  no  violent  measures. 

The  allusion  that  Elizabeth  had  made  to  Dorothy's 
being  in  the  keeping  of  these  lost  creatures  had 
alarmed  and  disturbed  him ;  not  that  he  seriously 
considered  her  words,  but  for  the  possible  effect  they 
might  have  on  others,  should  Elizabeth  speak  of  her 
suspicions  abroad. 

In  March  two  distinguished  magistrates,  John 
Hathorne  and  Jonathan  Corwin,  came  to  Salem  to 
try  the  accused  witches.  Alden  was  present  in  the 
meeting-house  during  these  trials,  though  he  took 
no  part  in  the  proceedings  beyond  that  of  interested 
listener,  having  peremptorily  refused  from  the  be 
ginning  of  the  witchcraft  trouble  to  sit  in  judgment 
upon  the  accused  parties  so  long  as  spectral  testi 
mony  was  taken  in  evidence.  The  trial  was  at 
tended  with  considerable  pomp  and  ceremony. 
Great  crowds  watched  the  proceedings  with  awe 
and  respectful  attention,  drinking  in  with  credulous 


I6O  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

eagerness  the  absurd  testimony  tendered  by  the 
girls. 

It  was  the  last  day  of  the  trial.  Old  Goody 
Trueman,  who  had  been  taken  into  custody  shortly 
after  Dorothy's  departure  from  her  home,  lay  very 
ill  in  the  jail.  It  was  impossible  to  bring  her  from 
Ipswich,  where  the  prisoners  were  confined.  The 
crowd  was  in  a  fever  of  expectancy,  awaiting  the 
verdict.  All  were  silent ;  the  unusual  event  had 
made  a  deep  impression  upon  the  populace.  Now 
and  then  one  of  the  "  afflicted  children  "  would  dis 
turb  the  solemnity  of  the  scene  by  screaming  out 
that  one  of  the  witches  was  torturing  her ;  then  she 
would  fall  upon  the  floor  in  a  fit  or  a  faint. 

Wentworth,  wearied,  sick  at  heart  of  this  horrid 
spectacle,  left  the  church  and  repaired  to  the  quiet 
resting-place  of  the  dead,  whose  narrow  confines 
bordered  upon  the  meeting-house  grounds.  He 
looked  down  upon  a  newly  covered  grave :  a  few 
new  shoots  of  tender  grass  grew  upon  the  damp 
earth;  the* early  spring  sunshine  fell  warm  about 
him.  He  removed  his  hat  reverently,  and  gazed 
upon  the  peaceful  scene.  He  did  not  hear  a  step 
on  the  soft  ground  near  him,  when,  turning  sud 
denly,  he  encountered  the  keen  eyes  of  Martha 


THE    WITCHES.  l6l 

Holden  watching  him  intently.  She  now  came 
quickly  forward,  lifting  her  skirts  as  she  stepped 
over  twigs  and  brambles  that  lay  upon  some  of  the 
neglected  mounds.  He  did  not  speak ;  something 
in  her  face  drove  the  words  from  his  lips.  She  had 
reached  him  now  and  stood  close  beside  him. 
"  Alden,"  she  said,  then  hesitated,  "  I  have  some 
thing  to  tell  thee." 

"  Yes,"  he  said  quickly,  drawing  near  to  her. 

"  It  is  of  Dorothy.  Methought  I  would  seek  thee 
here  and  speak,  while  those  gaping  idiots  are  trying 
the  poor  old  dotards,  placing  their  keen  wits  against 
their  befogged  brains!"  She  glanced  angrily  to 
ward  the  meeting-house  as  she  spoke.  "  I  knew 
thou  couldst  not  stay  in  there  for  long!"  She 
pointed  contemptuously  over  her  shoulder  as  she 
finished  speaking. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  interrupted  impatiently;  "but 
what  of  Dorothy?" 

She  gave  him  a  searching  glance,  then  said 
abruptly,  "She  has  come  home." 

He  paled  a  moment ;  then  a  light  like  the  glow 
of  the  sun  when  it  is  highest  in  the  heavens  over 
spread  his  countenance.  "  Home ! "  he  gasped — 
"home!" 


1 62  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

"  Yes,  she  has  been  home  some  days ;  she  wished 
it  not  told  abroad." 

"  Where  has  she  been  ?  What  says  she  of — of — 
me?" 

"  She  has  spoken  but  once  of  thee,  and  then  in 
tones  of  deepest  contrition.  She  left  thee  for  the 
wrong  she  thought  she  would  do  thee,  did  she 
marry  thee  without  loving  thee.  She  hath  been 
ill  in  the  house  of  a  kind  woman  who  pitied  her 
when,  after  wandering  in  the  forest,  she  lost  her 
way.  She  was  seeking  to  reach  the  seacoast,  to 
embark  for  England." 

"  God  bless  that  kindly  woman,  whoever  she  may 
be,"  said  Wentworth  reverently. 

Martha  continued :  "  Speak  not  much  to  her  of 
her  wanderings  when  thou  dost  see  her;  she  is  yet 
over  weak,  and  allusions  to  her  troubles  do  but 
harass  her  greatly." 

"Will  she  see  me?  I  fear  she  may  not  desire  it 
after  all  that  I  have  brought  upon  her;  for  thou 
knowest,  Martha,  fear  of  me  drove  her  from  her 
home." 

"  Not  so,"  said  Martha.  "  I  do  love  the  child, 
yet  I  can  see  her  faults:  she  was  ever  unhappy, 
seeking  advancement.  Be  not  too  humble  ;  women 


THE    WITCHES.  163 

like  not  men  that  do  bemean  themselves.  Show 
her  that  thou  art  master.  If  I  were  a  married 
woman,  I  would  not  let  thee  into  this  secret." 
She  laughed.  "  Too  much  leaven  makes  the  bread 
hollow." 

For  very  happiness  he  laughed  too,  then  checked 
the  mirth  as  a  sound  unbefitting  the  sacredness  of 
the  place  where  they  stood. 

"  I  will  not  let  her  know  that  I  have  seen  thee," 
said  Martha  warily.  "  Come  some  time  as  though 
by  chance.  Remember,  she  has  changed.  She 
will  not  meet  thee  dancing  that  heathenish  dance, 
as  thou  hast  once  seen  her;  her  heart  is  not  so 
light  as  then."  She  paused,  and  continued  sadly: 
"  No  doubt  this  discipline  is  better  for  her,  but  she 
is  little  wild  Dorothy  no  longer." 

They  were  startled  from  further  converse  by 
shouting  and  screams  and  the  .tramping  of  many 
feet.  They  turned,  to  see  crowds  issuing  from  the 
doors  of  the  meeting-house.  The  verdict  had  been 
rendered,  the  trial  was  over.  The  prisoners  were 
being  led,  or  rather  dragged  forth,  by  their  jailers. 
Following  closely  came  the  "  afflicted  children," 
calling  loudly  after  them  : 

"  See    where    they    go,    their    imps    surrounding 


1 64  DOROTHY   THE    PURITAN. 

them !  They  do  pinch  us,  and  prick  us,  and  choke 
us." 

"They  do  seek  our  souls!"  shrieked  the  deep 
voice  of  Elizabeth  Hubbard,  as  she  strode,  tall  and 
menacing,  in  their  wake,  the  picture  of  an  avenging 
goddess  loth  to  let  her  prey  escape. 

The  two  poor  friendless  old  women,  cowering 
and  trembling  before  her  cries  and  frenzied  atti 
tude,  raised  their  hands  imploringly.  Their  eyes 
were  dim  with  age,  and  their  forms  bent  by  the  in 
firmities  of  many  years. 

"Away  with  them!"  she  cried.  "Their  eyes  do 
pierce  our  souls  like  coals  of  fire !  Take  them  from 
our  sight,  else  we  suffer  from  the  torments  they  do 
send  upon  us." 

Then  followed  fits  and  swoons,  and  gestures  of 
apparent  terror  and  dismay. 

"I  am  no  witch!"  called  one  of  the  prisoners 
angrily,  in  a  high,  cracked  voice.  "  Ye  do  dis 
semble.  I  have  no  contact  with  the  Evil  One ;  ye 
have,  for  ye  seek  our  lives." 

"  She  tortures  these  poor  children,"  said  the  mag 
istrate,  from  his  position  on  the  upper  steps  of  the 
church.  "  See  ye  not  their  sufferings  ?  Put  these 
accursed  fiends  into  the  cart,  and  hasten  with  them 


THE    WITCHES.  165 

to  the  jail.  Pollute  our  presence  no  longer  by  these 
hags  of  wickedness." 

Amidst  great  confusion  on  the  part  of  the  crowd, 
and  groans  from  the  two  terrified  old  women,  the 
latter  were  placed  in  the  cart;  and  followed  by 
jeering,  hooting  boys  hurling  sticks  and  stones, 
they  proceeded  down  the  country  road  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  prison.  Martha  and  Wentworth  gazed 
upon  this  spectacle  with  varying  emotions :  Went 
worth  with  deep  pity,  yet  powerless  to  interfere,  for 
were  these  prisoners  not  tried  by  law?  Martha 
with  anger  uncontrollable.  She  turned  impatiently 
to  her  companion. 

"  Why  seek  ye  not  to  influence  Elizabeth  Hub- 
bard?"  she  said.  "  Methinks  she  would  heed  thee, 
the  wicked  baggage!  Out  upon  her,  with  her  heart 
of  stone!  She  is  the  leader  in  all  this  wickedness." 

Elizabeth  had  been  standing  for  some  minutes 
with  her  back  to  them,  not  seeing  the  two  figures 
watching  quietly  among  the  graves ;  she  was  gaz 
ing  gloomily  after  the  retreating  crowds.  She  now 
turned  quickly,  hearing  her  name,  and  encountered 
the  grave,  reproachful  glance  of  the  young  judge 
and  the  wrathful  eyes  of  Martha.  But  her  gaze 
did  not  fall  before  theirs.  She  came  rapidly  toward 


166  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

them  over  the  rough  ground,  not  avoiding  the  rest 
ing-places  of  the  dead,  but  stepping  heavily  upon 
the  raised  hillocks  as  though  there  was  no  sacred- 
ness  in  the  place.  As  she  neared  them,  she  turned 
defiantly  upon  Martha  and  touched  her  arm. 

"  Why  were  ye  not  at  the  trial,  Mistress  Holden  ? 
It  was  a  rare  scene." 

"I  detest  such  sights!"  said  Martha  angrily, 
twitching  her  arm  from  the  girl's  grasp.  "  When  I 
make  war,  I  make  it  not  on  two  poor  imbecile  old 
women.  Ye  had  better  be  about  some  other  busi 
ness,  or  methinks  ye  will  do  better  work  for  Satan 
than  aught  thy  victims  can  do." 

Wentworth  laid  his  hand  on  the  outstretched  arm 
of  the  excited  woman.  "  Be  discreet,  be  discreet," 
he  said. 

"  I  approve  not  of  such  deeds,  and  I  am  not 
afraid  to  say  so,"  she  replied. 

Elizabeth  watched  the  angry  woman  with  a  hard, 
determined  expression.  "  Discretion  were  better 
for  thee,"  she  said  slowly.  "  Mr.  Wentworth  ad 
vises  well.  Yet  let  me  tell  thee  the  import  of  the 
trial.  In  a  few  weeks  they  will  be  hung,  Old 
Goody  Trueman  with  the  rest,  or  as  soon  as  her 
health  permits  her  to  mount  Gallows  Hill." 


THE    WITCHES.  1 67 

"Surely,  surely  not!"  cried  Alden  Wentworth ' in 
dismay. 

"  Ay,  'tis  true  and  just ;  the  magistrates  have  so 
decreed  it." 

"  I  say  it  is  not  just,"  interrupted  Martha  hotly. 
"  Thou  art  a  wicked  girl ;  yet  thou  wilt  receive  thy 
reward.  Methinks  thou  hast  received  already  a 
portion  of  it.  Fate  can  spin  a  web  stronger  than 
thou  canst,  Elizabeth.  Whom  dost  thou  think  has 
returned  to  Salem?"  As  she  spoke  Martha  smiled 
triumphantly  upon  her  angry  auditor,  cocking  her 
head  on  one  side,  and  laughing  softly.  "  Thou  wilt 
not  have  it  all  thine  own  way  now." 

"Who?"  inquired  the  girl.  "I  care  not  who 
comes  and  goes  from  Salem." 

Alden  Wentworth  was  not  taking  part  in  the 
angry  discussion  between  the  two  women.  He  had 
retired  a  few  steps  from  them  and  stood  motionless, 
his  head  raised,  a  happy,  dreamy  light  in  his  fine 
eyes.  Elizabeth  watched  him  intently  an  instant 
and  read  the  answer  to  her  question  on  his  face. 

"Dorothy,"  she  said,  "Dorothy  has  returned." 
Her  voice  sounded  strained  and  unnatural. 

"  Yes,  forsooth,  Dorothy,  thy  old  friend,  whom  I 
heard  thee  malign  in  the  market-place.  No  doubt 


1 68  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

thou  wilt  be  happy  to  welcome  her  again,"  she  con 
cluded  sarcastically. 

"Where  has  she  been  these  four  months?"  de 
manded  Elizabeth. 

"  What  is  that  to  thee  ?  Thou  canst  have  no 
interest  in  the  matter.  If  thou  canst  not  prove 
thyself  a  friend  in  need,  in  good  times  we  want 
thee  not.  I  wish  thee  to  come  no  more  to  the 
farm." 

"  Yes,  Elizabeth,"  said  Went  worth,  the  sound  of 
Dorothy's  name  recalling  him  from  his  reverie,  "  she 
has  returned  amongst  us.  The  heavy  remorse  I 
have  carried  within  me  is  no  more.  My  prayers 
are  answered.  We  should  all  bid  her  welcome, 
both  for  her  own  sake  and  for  the  sake  of  her  good 
aunt  and  uncle." 

"And  ye  advise  me  thus?"  she  said,  stamping 
her  foot  passionately,  and  striking  her  hand  vio 
lently  against  a  headstone  raised  upon  an  adjacent 
grave.  "  Ye  are  blind,  ye  cannot  see.  I  wish  that 
I  were  dead,  dead,  lying  here  below  where  my  feet 
tread.  There  is  no  hope,  no  happiness  more  for  me." 

Wentworth  and  Martha  started  in  dismay  at  this 
exhibition  of  anger  and  despair,  and  drew  back  a 
few  paces. 


THE    WITCHES.  169 

"  Ye  may  well  shrink  from  me,"  she  cried.  "  Ye 
have  ever  said  that  I  was  wild  and  had  no  reason  in 
me.  Ye  have  doubted  that  I  did  see  visions."  She 
drew  nearer  to  them  and  peered  into  their  faces. 
"  Look,  I  see  one  now;  it  rises  from  yonder  grave." 
She  pointed,  as  she  spoke,  to  a  sunken  depression 
in  a  neighboring  plot.  "  Ye  cannot  see  it.  It  is 
well  that  ye  cannot.  It  rises  from  the  dead,  to  the 
dead  it  returns.  And  ye — ye — have  made  me  see 
this  vision."  She  clutched  the  young  man's  arm 
convulsively,  and  her  voice  died  away  in  a  low  echo 
that  resounded  over  the  lonely  field. 

"  Calm  thyself,  calm  thyself/'  said  Wentworth, 
much  alarmed.  "  These  witch  trials  do  but  make 
thee  beside  thyself ;  thy  mind  is  dwarfed.  To  me 
thy  words  are  riddles." 

"  Riddles ! "  she  cried  mockingly.  "  He  calls  them 
riddles.  Perchance  ye  will  have  the  wisdom  given 
thee  some  day  wherewith  to  read  them."  She 
laughed  that  eerie,  haunting  laugh  of  hers. 

"  Hush,  Elizabeth,  hush!"  he  reiterated. 

"  I  will  not,"  she  said.  "  I  will  have  my  say, 
then  I  will  depart.  As  I  have  entertained  thee 
well,  I  will  soon  bid  thee  good-day.  Be  not  dis 
turbed,  Mistress  Holden,  I  will  not  call  at  the  farm. 


I  70  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

Yet  wait ;  I  have  a  message  for  Dorothy.  Tell  her 
from  me,  that  when  she  marries  and  is  from  under 
thy  influence  I  will  bring  her  a  wedding  gift." 

"She  wants  none  of  thy  gifts,  thou  false  girl!" 
said  Martha. 

"  Nevertheless  I  will  bring  her  one,  and  it  shall 
be  woven  good  and  stout,  and  shall  be  of  goodly 
length." 

She  left  them  abruptly.  When  she  reached  the 
gate  of  the  little  graveyard  she  paused  and  glanced 
back  over  her  shoulder.  Her  face  looked  so  dark 
and  menacing,  her  eyes  so  black  and  baleful,  peer 
ing  forth  from  the  masses  of  somber-hued  hair,  her 
whole  expression  so  malignant,  that  Martha,  shud 
dering,  drew  closer  to  Wentvvorth. 

"What  meaning  lies  in  her  words?"  she  gasped. 
"  She  must  be  crazed.  Was  ever  girl  so  daft?  " 

"  She  means  harm  to  Dorothy,"  said  Wentworth 
slowly.  "  Yet  surely  I  cannot  understand  why  she 
should  hate  her,  her  old  friend." 

"  Ye  men  are  stupid,"  answered  Martha  impa 
tiently.  "  I  know  well  why  she  hates  her.  Thou 
canst  not  see  through  a  clear  glass — ye  have  no 
discernment." 

Wentworth  looked  helplessly  upon  his  companion, 


THE    WITCHES.  I  71 

but  did  not  reply.  They  waited  a  few  moments 
longer,  communing  with  their  own  thoughts.  The 
wind  blew  damp  and  chill  about  them ;  the  sky  was 
fast  deepening  into  the  gray  tints  of  a  somber  sun 
set  ;  the  little  graveyard  grew  bleak  and  dull-hued. 

Suddenly  he  spoke :  "  Come,  let  us  be  going ; 
'tis  cold  among  the  graves." 

"Yes,"  said  Martha,  "let  us  be  going;  at  home, 
perhaps,  we  can  drive  the  ill-omened  words  of  this 
girl  adrift.  My  heart  is  heavy ;  this  hillside  is  an 
uncanny  spot." 


CHAPTER   X. 

THE    RENEWAL   OF   LOVE. 

THE  air  was  growing  warm  with  the  sweet  breath 
of  spring.  The  wild  violets,  anemones,  and  the 
wind-blown  grass  flowers  were  gazing  coyly  forth 
from  their  winter  resting-places.  In  the  orchards 
the  pink  and  white  masses  of  buds  upon  the  fruit- 
trees  flung  out  their  fragrance  to  the  breeze.  The 
little  brooks  sang  merrily  through  the  woods,  joining 
with  the  joyous  songs  of  birds.  Upon  the  bare, 
bleak  hills  the  foliage  spread  and  covered  the  gray 
boughs,  and  the  brown  earth  lay  hidden  beneath 
richest  verdure. 

The  door  of  the  farmhouse  was  open,  but  the 
soft  air,  the  sunshine,  the  fragrance,  and  the  songs 
of  the  merry  birds  were  all  unnoticed  by  the  girl 
who  sat  within  the  threshold,  her  head  bowed  above 
her  spinning-wheel.  Her  hands  were  busy,  her  foot 
was  upon  the  treadle,  but  her  thoughts  were  far 
distant  in  another  spring,  just  one  year  ago.  Poor, 
erring  Dorothy! 

172 


THE    RENEWAL   OF    LOVE.  173 

"  Just  one  year  ago,"  she  mused,  "  I  did  fling  my 
happiness  aside,  and  now,  like  a  child  who  has  no 
power  to  help  itself,  I  weep  for  the  ruin  I  have 
wrought." 

She  dropped  the  linen  she  had  been  weaving, 
and  rising,  went  to  the  open  door.  She  looked 
across  the  smooth  fields  to  where  the  line  of  sea 
glittered,  then  upon  the  cattle  grazing  peacefully  in 
the  meadows,  then  to  the  blue  sky  above  her  head. 
"  I  seem  to  care  for  naught,"  she  said  aloud;  "  it  is 
as  though  I  had  no  feeling  left  in  me.  Yet  once  a 
day  like  this,  and  I  could  have  danced  and  sung,  as 
happy  as  yonder  bird  who  hastens  to  his  nest." 
She  drew  her  hand  across  her  eyes:  they  were 
filled  with  tears.  "  I  had  thought  perhaps  he  would 
have  come — and  yet,  why  should  I  wish  to  be  more 
miserable  than  I  am  ?  He  cares  not  for  me,  he  has 
forgotten." 

She  returned  to  her  work.  Round  and  round 
went  the  busy  wheel,  the  lint  from  the  linen  flying 
through  the  atmosphere,  the  whirring  sound  echoing 
pleasantly,  like  the  song  of  a  good  housewife  happy 
at  her  task.  Dorothy's  passage  through  the  fire  of 
tribulation  had  purified  much  of  the  light  dross  which 
had  been  hers  both  by  inheritance  and  temperament. 


174  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

The  merriment  of  her  nature  had  toned  to  a  gentle 
humor,  which,  though  seldom  seen,  shone  forth  oc 
casionally,  like  the  rare  glimpse  of  the  sun  on  a 
winter's  day. 

Her  beauty  had  increased  and  expanded.  The 
childish  contour  of  her  face  was  replaced  by  firmer, 
sweeter  lines,  while  a  pathetic  pensiveness  had  taken 
the  place  of  her  former  mischievous  archness.  Her 
perverse,  irritating  moods  had  departed,  and  in 
their  stead  came  a  quiet  acquiescence  that  amounted 
at  times  almost  to  indifference.  This  latter  change 
in  Dorothy  was  the  cause  of  much  disquietude  to 
her  aunt. 

Alden  Wentworth,  true  to  his  word,  had  not  yet 
called  upon  his  old  love,  and  she,  all  unsuspecting 
Martha's  interview  with  him,  watched  and  waited, 
hoping,  yet  fearing  his  coming. 

As  Dorothy  sat  before  her  wheel  this  day,  she 
made  a  pleasant  picture.  She  wore  a  blue  petti 
coat,  a  bodice  with  slashed  sleeves,  a  lace  neck 
cloth  around  her  slender  throat,  and  upon  her  pretty 
drooping  head  a  silken  hood  rested,  the  brown  curls 
falling  in  little  rings  upon  her  forehead.  Her  small 
feet  were  shod  with  high-heeled  shoes  with  silver 


THE    RENEWAL    OF    LOVE.  175 

buckles,  and  the  pretty  apron  that  covered  her  dress 
in  front  was  daintily  embroidered. 

The  practice  of  the  Puritans  in  regard  to  dress 
was  in  some  respects  at  variance  with  their  theories, 
many  vanities  of  the  toilet  being  allowed.  This 
was  probably  in  defiance  of  the  severity  of  the  at 
tire  of  the  Quakers,  a  sect  whom  they  abhorred. 

The  shadow  rested  near  the  hour  of  four  upon 
the  dial  in  the  garden  path.  Dinner  had  long  been 
over ;  David  had  returned  to  the  field ;  Martha  was 
in  the  milk-room,  busy  with  her  churning.  The 
house  was  very  still ;  old  Rollo  lay  curled  up  on  the 
doorstep,  fast  asleep. 

Dorothy  took  her  foot  from  the  treadle,  bowed 
her  head  upon  her  arm,  and  leaned  forward  upon 
the  wheel.  The  breeze  stirred  her  soft  hair  and 
fanned  her  neck,  but  she  was  oblivious  to  all  sur 
roundings.  Her  thoughts  were  blended  in  a  maze 
of  regrets  and  remorse  for  the  past  year — the  year 
of  her  grave  mistake.  She  did  not  hear  a  step 
pause  upon  the  walk,  or  the  rustle  of  the  shrubs 
near  the  door. 

She  did  not  move  until  a  well-remembered  voice 
said,  "  Dorothy!" 


i;6  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

She  then  started  quickly,  and  rose  to  her  feet,  a 
blush  mounting  over  her  pale  face — a  scorching, 
crimson  blush.  She  held  out  her  small  hands  dep- 
recatingly ;  her  sensitive  lips  quivered  like  a  fright 
ened  child's. 

Wentworth  took  a  step  forward,  watching  her  in 
tently  as  he  did  so.  "  Welcome  home,  Dorothy," 
he  said,  "  welcome  home." 

By  a  great  effort  of  will  she  quelled  the  hysterical 
desire  to  sob,  and  in  a  voice  scarce  audible  replied, 
"  Thou  art  kind  to  bid  me  welcome  ;  I  merit  not  such 
words  from  thee."  She  leaned  tremblingly  against 
the  spinning-wheel,  and  gave  him  such  a  pleading, 
piteous  glance  that  Wentworth  was  deeply  moved. 

"  Be  not  afraid  of  me,  Dorothy ;  I  would  not 
harm  thee.  No  thought  against  thee  has  ever 
found  place  in  my  heart.  The  wrong  thou  hast 
done  me  is  balanced  by  the  wrong  I  did  thee." 

They  stood  facing  each  other,  the  yellow  sunlight 
from  the  open  door  falling  over  both. 

At  these  words  a  tremor  passed  over  Dorothy. 
"  No,  no,"  she  said  vehemently,  "  say  not  so.  I  am 
all  to  blame.  I  left  thee — I  left  thee —  She 

could  not  continue ;  her  voice  broke,  and  she  turned 
away  her  head. 


THE    RENEWAL    OF    LOVE.  177 

He  came  nearer  to  her,  and  clasped  her  hand 
firmly  in  his.  "  I  know  thou  didst  leave  me,  and  I 
know  wherefore.  I  will  not  reproach  thee ;  thou 
hast  ever  been  frank  and  true.  Let  it  be  between 
us  henceforth  as  though  this  had  never  been.  Let 
us  turn  our  feet  into  a  new  path,  leaving  the  land 
marks  on  the  old  forgotten." 

"  No,  no,"  she  said,  weeping,  "  it.  can  never  be 
the  same  again.  How  can  it,  when  this  my  mis 
deed  is  ever  between  us?  We  cannot  bury  it,  for, 
like  a  buried  seed,  it  will  grow  and  bear  fruit.  I 
fear  myself,  I  fear  myself!"  She  tried  to  draw  her 
hand  from  his  grasp,  but  he  held  it  firmly,  and 
forced  her  to  look  upon  him. 

"  Thou  art  weak  yet  from  the  fever.  Thy  words 
are  not  the  truth  of  thy  heart.  I  will  wait.  Time 
is  naught,  if  it  bring  me  at  length  what  I  once 
thought  was  mine.  Dost  thou  feel  as  cold  toward 
me  as  formerly?  " 

She  threw  out  her  disengaged  hand  with  a  pas 
sionate  gesture.  "  No,  no,  Alden,  no,  no.  Yet — 
I  am  not  fit  to  be  to  thee  what  thou  wouldst  have 
me — I  am  not  fit." 

"Not  fit!"  he  said.  "Thou  art  too  good,  too 
pure,  too  true  for  me." 


DOROTHY   THE    PURITAN. 

As  he  spoke  these  words,  she  trembled  so  per 
ceptibly  that  he  thought  she  would  have  fallen ;  her 
face  grew  white  and  drawn.  "  Sit  here  near  the 
door,  on  the  settle,"  he  said  anxiously,  putting  his 
arm  about  her  and  guiding  her  steps.  She  leaned 
against  him  helplessly.  "  I  have  alarmed  thee,"  he 
said.  "  Forgive  me." 

"  Nay,  it  is  not  that.  I  am  not  good  or  true ;  I 
am  neither;  I  have  done  that  which  can  never  be 
forgiven." 

He,  thinking  that  in  her  weak  condition  her  over 
taxed  nerves  caused  this  magnifying  of  her  offense, 
soothed  her,  speaking  gently  to  her,  now  and  then 
placing  his  hand  tenderly  upon  her  hair.  When  he 
did  this,  she  shrank  as  from  a  blow.  Seeing  this 
movement  he  drew  his  hand  away,  but  not  in  dis 
pleasure,  for  he  had  read  in  Dorothy's  manner  and 
words  something  that  caused  his  pulse's  to  throb 
and  his  heart  to  beat  joyously. 

"  My  child,"  he  said,  "  let  us  converse  calmly.  I 
will  not  pester  thee  with  questions  of  thy  feelings ; 
tell  me  of  thy  wanderings.  Did  the  dark  forests 
not  affright  thee  greatly  ?  Who  was  this  kindly 
woman  who  took  thee  in?  I  would  I  might  requite 
her  for  her  care  of  thee." 


THE    RENEWAL   OF    LOVE.  179 

A  gray  pallor  overswept  her  face,  more  alarming 
than  had  been  her  previous  whiteness.  She  could 
not  answer  him ;  her  lips  became  dry,  her  tongue 
dumb.  Requite  her!  If  he  but  knew  of  those 
beads  of  gold  that  Goody  had  taken  for  her  recom 
pense — those  beads  that  bought  her  to  follow  a  ly 
ing  deceiver,  that  glittering  chain  that  bound  her  to 
her  own  destruction — he  would  scorn  and  spurn  her, 
she  thought,  looking  up  into  the  kind  face  observing 
her,  a  voice  within  her  convincing  her  that  that  face 
could  look  cold  and  stern  and  pitiless. 

"  I  cannot  talk  of  that  dreadful  time,"  she  said. 
"  Ask  me  not ;  it  frightens  me  to  recall  it.  Tell  me 
of  thyself  and  Salem,  and  of  this  terrible  sorcery 
that  is  in  our  midst." 

He  did  as  she  required.  "  I  can  well  believe  that 
it  pains  thee  to  speak  of  so  much  sorrow.  I  fear, 
however,  this  witchcraft  plague  is  not  a  more  cheer 
ful  subject.  It  is  growing  to  great  dimensions. 
Many  have  been  arrested  and  now  lie  in  prison 
awaiting  trial." 

"  I  hear  Elizabeth  is  one  of  the  foremost  of 
accusers." 

"  She  is  vehement  in  her  charges ;  yet  not  she 
alone,  for  most  of  the  people  do  affirm  that  there  is 


l8o  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

a  diabolical  agency  in  this  strange  demeanor  of  the 
afflicted  children." 

"Aunt  Martha  bides  at  home  and  forbids  me  to 
attend  the  trials,  though  indeed  I  desire  not  to  see 
the  doings." 

"  It  is  no  place  for  thee."  He  spoke  decidedly. 
"  Hast  heard  that  old  Goody  Trueman  lies  in  Ips 
wich  jail  yet  very  ill?  Thou  wilt  remember  her. 
Thou  hast  seen  her  on  the  edge  of  the  forest  at 
sundown,  a  glow  upon  her  form  like  fire.  Many  do 
affirm,  though  I  must  confess  I  have  seen  it  not, 
that  a  black  dog  appears  and  disappears  by  her  side 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye ;  and  they  do  say  further, 
that  at  midnight,  in  the  glen,  she  leads  the  dance  of 
the  witches." 

"I  believe  it  not!  It  is  false!"  she  cried  ex 
citedly.  "  I  believe  she  is  a  good  old  woman." 

He  eyed  her  curiously  a  moment.  "  Thou  art  so 
good,  Dorothy,  that  thou  canst  see  no  harm  in 
others." 

She  winced  at  these  words,  and  her  hands  worked 
nervously  as  they  lay  in  her  lap. 

He  arose  presently.  "  See,"  he  said,  "  the  even 
ing  has  come ;  already  the  sun  is  sinking.  I  must 
leave  thee.  I  have  pressing  business  at  the  manse. 


THE    RENEWAL    OF    LOVE.  l8l 

A  great  meeting  of  the  clergy  will  be  held  this 
night  week  in  reference  to  witchcraft ;  as  deacon 
of  the  Salem  church,  I  must  prepare  a  discourse  for 
that  occasion.  Dorothy,  good-night." 

She  rose  from  the  settle  and  placed  her  hand  in 
his.  "  Good-night,"  she  said  simply. 

He  hesitated  an  instant  on  the  doorstep,  then  said 
slowly,  "  Thou  hast  naught  to  tell  me  why  I  should 
not  come  to  see  thee  oft?  Wilt  thou  welcome 
me?"  he  pleaded  wistfully. 

She  tried  to  speak,  but  no  sound  came  from  her 
lips. 

"  Am  I  not  welcome,  then?  " 

"Thou  art  welcome,"  she  said  at  last,  scarcely 
recognizing  her  own  voice,  it  was  so  strained  and 
hoarse,  "  and — and — I  have  naught  to  tell  thee." 

"  I  shall  come,  then,  again,  and  soon."  He  went 
from  her  presence  down  the  garden  path  in  the  fast 
gathering  twilight. 

When  he  reached  the  gate  she  called  him  back. 
"Alden,  Alden!"  she  said.  He  was  by  her  side 
quickly.  "  I  know  not  why  I  called  thee  back,"  she 
said  brokenly ;  "  perchance  an  impulse  to  tell  thee 
something.  It  has  gone  from  me  again ;  I  cannot 
remember;  it  was  no  doubt  but  a  trifle."  She 


1 82  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

spoke  feverishly  and  grasped  his  arm.  "  Tell  me, 
tell  me,  hast  thou  forgiven  me?  Give  me  some 
penance,  that  I  may  perform  it — some  hard  deed 
that  I  may  do  to  prove  that  I  have  indeed  been 
pardoned,  and  for  my  soul's  peace." 

"  I  have  forgiven  thee,  freely,  fully ;  it  is  as 
though  thy  desertion  had  never  been.  Wilt  thou 
not  believe  me?  We  have  both  erred  and  have 
both  forgiven." 

"Thou  hast  not  erred,  thou  hast  not,"  she  said. 
"  Couldst  thou  forgive  everything  for  the  love  thou 
hast  for  me — all  weakness,  all  wrong?"  She  dared 
not  look  into  his  face  as  she  asked  this  question. 

"  No,  Dorothy,  not  everything :  not  deceit,  nor 
unfaithfulness ;  methinks  that  would  kill  all  love  in 
me.  But  why  thus  torture  thyself?  I  deem  that 
there  still  lurks  the  fever  about  thee." 

"  Ay,"  she  replied,  "  but  not  fever  of  body. 
Good-night,  good-night,  Alden.  Dream  of  me  as 
thou  knewest  me  a  year  ago,  not  as  now.  Dream 
of  me."  Her  voice  sounded  sweet  and  gentle. 

"  I  shall  dream  of  thee  now,  as  always,  my  be 
loved  one,  who  holds  my  heart  and  faith  and  hopes." 
He  clasped  her  passionately  and  kissed  her.  "  Thou 
lovest  me,  thou  lovest  me,"  he  murmured. 


THE    RENEWAL   OF    LOVE.  183 

"  Ay,"  she  said,  "  I  love  thee ;  yet  pity  me,  pity 
me,  Alden.  My  will  is  weak.  Oh,  let  me  go,  let 
me  think!"  She  released  herself  from  his  arms. 
"  I  am  so  tired.  I  have  battled  against  this  love ; 
thou  hast  won — wilt  thou  be  merciful?" 

"  Dorothy,  thy  words  are  strange ;  I  understand 
them  not.  Dearest,  all  is  right  between  us  once 
more.  It  is  as  though  the  sun  of  happiness  had 
spread  his  rays  upon  us,  to  lighten  the  way  in  which 
our  feet  shall  tread.  Surely  God  has  been  good  to 
us;  He  has  tried  our  affection  and  found  it  strong." 
He  went  again  down  the  path,  looking  back  once 
when  he  reached  the  gate. 

In  the  fast  waning  light  she  strained  her  eyes  for 
the  last  glimpse  of  him  as  he  passed  from  her  sight. 
Then  she  leaned  her  head  against  the  doorpost,  her 
eyes  wide  and  dry,  and  looked  straight  before  her, 
seeing  nothing:  not  the  gorgeous  coloring  in  the 
western  sky,  where  shafts  of  crimson  and  of  gold 
stretched  across  the  heavens ;  not  the  white  mist  of 
the  coming  night,  that  lay  like  a  shroud  upon  the 
trees  and  shrubs ;  not  the  long  line  of  cattle  cross 
ing  the  meadows  to  the  barnyard ;  not  even  old 
Rollo,  looking  affectionately  up  into  her  face.  Ah 
no,  her  thoughts  were  turned  inward,  were  com- 


1 84  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

muning  in  that  secret  place  where  none  had  been 
admitted. 

She  realized  fully  that  the  disclosure  of  her  flight 
with  Grenville  would  cost  her  the  love  of  Went- 
worth.  Furthermore,  the  knowledge  of  her  long 
residence  in  Goody  Trueman's  hut  would  cause  the 
suspicions  of  the  excited  populace  to  descend  upon 
her,  and  these  once  aroused,  there  was  no  conject 
uring  what  the  end  would  be.  This  latter  conclu 
sion  did  not  affect  her  with  that  shrinking  dread  and 
quaking  at  her  heart  as  did  the  fear  of  losing  one 
whom  she  now  felt  to  be  more  than  life  to  her. 

Then  the  horrible  doubt  dawned  upon  her,  that 
he  would  not  believe  the  account  of  her  residence 
with  the  witch  and  her  escape  from  Grenville,  and 
she  had  no  witness  to  prove  her  words.  Who 
would  credit  the  evidence  of  a  lost  creature  such  as 
Goody?  "I  know  not,  I  know  not,"  she  mur 
mured,  "  which  way  to  turn  for  counsel."  Then  in 
her  ears  sounded,  with  grave  decision,  old  Goody's 
warning — "Tell  the  truth,  tell  the  truth."  "  I  dare 
not,  I  dare  not;  the  price  is  too  great."  She 
clasped  her  hands  and  looked  up  into  the  sky,  now 
dark  with  the  coming  night.  "  Oh,  for  a  voice  from 
that  great  throne  above,  not  to  tell  me  what  is  right 


THE    RENEWAL   OF    LOVE.  185 

— that  I  know — but  to  give  me  strength  to  fling 
aside  what  I  most  desire."  No  voice  came  from 
the  somber  clouds ;  no  sound  was  heard  except  the 
rustle  of  the  wind  across  the*  fields  and  the  evening 
songs  of  the  little  birds  in  their  nests,  joining  with 
the  whirring  of  insects.  "  Methinks  God  has  for 
gotten  me  for  that  false  step,"  she  whispered  sadly, 
"  and  as  I  once  did  err,  has  taken  from  me  all 
strength  to  resist  temptation." 

While  she  thus  thought  bitterly,  old  David  came 
across  the  path.  He  walked  slowly,  for  he  was 
wearied  by  a  hard  day's  work.  He  took  a  seat  be 
side  his  niece  upon  the  doorstep. 

"  So  Wentworth  has  been  here,"  he  said,  glanc 
ing  sharply  at  Dorothy  from  under  his  beetling 
brows;  "  I  saw  him  leave  the  house." 

"  Yes,  he  has  been  here." 

"  Is  he  coming  again?  "  he  demanded  quickly. 

"  He  is  coming  again,"  she  answered  quietly. 

"  Then  take  heed,  Dorothy,  if  it  be  thy  wish  that 
he  comes  to  thee,  that  no  more  shall  thy  tempers, 
thy  follies,  and  thy  whims  rise  up  between  thee." 

She  did  not  reply. 

"  Dost  thou  hear  me?  "  he  demanded.  "  Now  let 
me  say  further,  then  I  shall  speak  no  more  upon 


1 86  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

this  subject:  he  has  forgiven  thee,  freely  and  fully." 
He  paused,  then  continued  gravely :  "  If  I  read  the 
man  aright,  he  could  be  pitiless  and  cruel  to  one 
whom  he  deemed  had*  injured  him.  Be  sure  that 
thou  goest  to  him  with  all  thy  heart,  no  secrets  hid 
from  him.  I  am  an  old  man,  Dorothy,  and  my  in 
terest  is  in  thy  welfare." 

Instead  of  replying  she  left  her  seat  hurriedly  and 
stepped  into  the  path  and  took  a  few  hasty  steps  to 
and  fro,  then  cried  angrily  : 

"  Why  dost  thou  irritate  me,  uncle?  What  could 
be  kept  secret  between  us  ?  He  knows  all.  Shall  I 
crawl  upon  my  knees  to  him?  Perchance  that  is 
what  thou  wouldst  have  me  do."  She  laughed  hys 
terically.  "  I  will  go  to  the  milk-room  and  help 
Aunt  Martha.  She  is  ever  kind  to  me  since  my  re 
turn  ;  she  does  not  cast  suspicious  gibes  at  me." 

Thus  Dorothy  thrust  aside  another  opportunity, 
and  with  each  baffled  effort  the  spinning  of  the  web 
grew  stronger,  and  the  little  spider  of  deceit  ran 
gleefully  up  and  down  the  strands,  carrying  ever 
fresh  materials  for  the  structure.  We  deceive  our 
selves  when  we  consider  that  the  enormity  of  the 
sin  lies  in  the  sin  itself.  If  such  were  the  case  then 
would  there  be  but  one  victim  to  suffer  for  a 


THE    RENEWAL    OF    LOVE.  187 

broken  law,  and  that  one  might  pay  the  penalty  by 
atonement  and  restitution,  and  all  be  made  perfect 
once  more,  unheeded  by  the  thoughtless  one,  how 
ever  the  mighty  consequences  stretch  out  their 
clinging,  penetrating  fibers,  drawing  in  all  who  come 
within  the  reach  of  their  influence.  It  is  indeed 
one  of  the  most  torturing  symptoms  of  remorse 
that  we  cannot  suffer  alone,  but  that  those  we  love 
and  fain  would  shield  must  also  be  dragged  down 
into  the  deep  waters  of  tribulation  with  us. 

Dorothy  buried  her  secret  for  the  present ;  it 
rested  not  in  the  grave  she  dug  for  it,  but  arose  and 
stalked  forth  in  the  broad  light  of  day.  To  her 
feverish  imagination  it  seemed  that  a  being  re 
sembling  herself,  yet  different,  and  unseen  by  all 
eyes  save  her  own,  walked  forever  by  her  side.  It 
stood  close  beside  her  in  the  market-place,  in  the 
house,  in  the  church,  in  the  fields,  in  her  dreams. 
And  that  other  self,  the  one  being  who  knew  the 
secret  of  her  heart,  mocked  and  jeered,  pointing  the 
finger  of  scorn  and  derision.  "  Thou  deceivest 
others,  but  there  is  One  thou  canst  not  deceive, 
One  who  looks  down  upon  thee  from  the  heavens, 
One  who  knows  all,  One  to  whom  the  judgment  of 
mankind  is  as  nothing."  It  was  as  if  a  new  life  was 


1 88  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

hers  and  she  but  a  part  of  that  life,  for  another 
shared  it  with  her — a  hated  presence,  that  sent  its 
poison  into  her  being,  obliterating  the  spell  of  peace 
and  draining  the  springs  of  her  will. 

Dorothy  was  fighting  hopelessly  against  a  tender 
conscience.  It  was  doubtless  true  that  the  awak 
ened  power  and  passion  of  her  affection  kept  her 
silent.  Had  she  not  dreaded  losing  her  lover  she 
would  have  unburdened  her  heart  to  her  aunt  and 
uncle  and  abided  by  their  decision.  The  words 
trembled  constantly  upon  her  lips,  "  I  have  de 
ceived,  I  have  lied."  But  the  thought  always  fol 
lowed,  "  I  cannot  give  him  up ;  death  were  far 
better." 


CHAPTER   XI. 
DOROTHY'S  CONTRITION. 

WENTWORTH,  after  leaving  his  love  standing  in 
the  doorway  of  the  farmhouse,  went  directly  to  the 
abode  of  Mr.  Parris,  where  he  remained  for  some 
time  in  close  conversation  with  his  pastor.  The  re 
sult  of  this  interview  was  that  some  impatient,  if  not 
angry,  words  passed  between  the  two  men. 

"  I  fain  would  counsel  thee,"  said  Mr.  Parris  in 
his  harsh,  decided  manner,  "  not  to  overdo  this 
matter.  This  witch,  this  Goody  Trueman,  of  a 
surety  is  an  accursed  creature.  Why  does  the  soul 
which  she  has  sold  require  the  offices  of  the  church  ? 
It  would  be  but  a  hollow  mockery." 

"  I  differ  from  thee  in  this  matter,  Mr.  Parris ;  not 
doubting  the  verdict  of  the  magistrates  who  have 
condemned  her  to  death,  but  for  the  sake  of  a 
humanity  which  she  possesses  with  us  all,  I  think  it 
her  right  that  some'  spiritual — yes,  perhaps  earthly 
— comfort  should  be  meted  out  to  her." 

189 


DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

After  a  pause,  during  which  Mr.  Parris  looked 
closely  at  the  younger  man,  he  said  sarcastically : 
"What  wilt  thou  do?  go  to  Ipswich  and  hold 
prayers  in  the  jail  ?  " 

"  No,  certainly  not.  I  shall  not  usurp  thy  office. 
I  shall  simply  see  these  condemned  women,  and 
perchance  speak  some  holy  words  to  them.  This 
old  Goody  is  aged,  diseased,  and  helpless." 

"  I  fear  me,  Wentworth,  thou  hast  not  considered 
well  this  step.  Thou  surely  canst  not  be  in  sym 
pathy  with  these  lost  creatures!"  As  Mr.  Parris 
spoke,  he  looked  suspiciously  upon  his  parishioner, 
who  returned  the  glance  defiantly. 

"  My  sympathy  and  my  purpose  are  my  own.  I 
need  no  other  man's  guidance."  Wentworth  spoke 
decidedly,  though  respectfully.  "  I  need  not  tell 
thee  that  I  believe  in  witchcraft ;  I  do  certainly 
credit  the  power  of  the  spirits  of  the  air.  Yet  I  do 
affirm  that  this  kind  are  but  exorcised  by  fasting 
and  prayer.  What  good  is  accomplished  if  we  take 
their  miserable  lives?  We  do  but  send  them  to 
their  master.  Were  it  not  better  to  force  that  mas 
ter  to  relinquish  his  hold  upon  them  on  this  earth, 
while  there  is  time  for  repentance?  " 

"  Go   thy  way,"  cried  Mr.   Parris  angrily ;   "  go 


DOROTHY'S  CONTRITION.  191 

thy  way.  I  promise  thee  thy  work  will  be  useless ; 
thou  wilt  sow  thy  seed  on  barren  ground." 

When  Alden  informed  Dorothy  the  following  day 
of  his  intention  to  visit  the  condemned  witch,  she 
turned  as  pale  as  the  bunch  of  white  blossoms  she 
held  in  her  hand. 

"  Is  it  required  of  thee?  "  she  said  slowly. 

"  Not  ordered  by  my  superiors,  oh  no,"  said 
Went  worth ;  "  the  clergy  have  no  sympathy  with 
the  witches ;  yet  I  feel  as  though  this  undertaking 
were  but  part  of  the  life-work  I  have  chosen  as 
deacon  of  the  church,  to  visit  those  condemned 
to  die.  The  layman  has  a  duty  as  well  as  the 
pastor." 

"When  wilt  thou  go?"  she  inquired  in  a  low 
voice.  She  appeared  calm,  but  her  heart  was  beat 
ing  so  rapidly  it  seemed  he  must  hear  its  throbs. 

"In  a  day  or  so,"  he  replied.  "To-morrow  I 
attend  a  meeting  at  a  town  not  far  distant ;  per 
chance  the  following  day  I  shall  go  to  Ipswich." 

The  result  of  this  conversation  was  that  at  an 
early  hour  of  the  following  morning,  as  Alden  jour 
neyed  to  his  meeting,  Dorothy  started  in  the  oppo 
site  direction  with  a  small  basket  in  her  hand  and  a 
roll  of  some  material,  prepared  for  bandages,  under 


1 92  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

her  arm.  She  had  risen  early,  in  fact  with  the  first 
gleam  of  dawn,  explaining  to  her  aunt  her  intention 
of  spending  the  day  with  friends  living  on  a  distant 
farm.  Instead  she  turned  her  steps  toward  the  jail 
in  the  adjoining  town.  The  broiling,  blinding  sun 
beat  down  upon  her  as  she  walked,  the  perspiration 
started  upon  her  forehead ;  she  shifted  the  basket 
from  one  hand  to  the  other  as  though  it  contained 
some  weighty  substance.  The  road  was  many 
inches  deep  in  dust.  Little  clouds  of  powdery 
earth  rose  in  yellow  mist  about  her  feet.  It  was  a 
tedious  walk,  with  little  shade,  the  monotony  of  the 
way  unrelieved  save  by  the  occasional  passing  of  a 
farm  wagon.  Once  a  good-natured  farmer  offered 
her  a  seat  beside  him,  but  she  declined,  shaking  her 
head,  and  plodded  sturdily  along.  Back  from  the 
hot  road  were  shaded  glens,  through  which  flowed 
cool,  deep  streams,  running  between  fern-clothed 
banks.  She  dared  not  pause  and  rest  among  them, 
for  time  was  precious ;  she  must  return  to  Salem 
before  night  set  in.  So  she  looked  neither  to  the 
right  nor  the  left,  but  walked  rapidly  on,  breaking 
into  a  run  when  the  road  was  clear  of  passers. 

After  about  two  hours  or  more  of  this  energetic 
proceeding,   she  stood    before   the   jail.      It  was   a 


DOROTHY'S  CONTRITION.  193 

stout  wooden  edifice,  with  iron  doors  and  small, 
grated  windows.  After  much  parleying  with  the 
jailer,  she  was  conducted  to  old  Goody's  cell. 
Dorothy  had  claimed  relationship  with  the  prisoner, 
saying  she  had  come  from  a  great  distance  beyond 
Salem  to  bring  her  a  remedy  for  her  disease,  which 
she  was  lying  ill  of  and  near  to  death. 

"  It  is  contrary  to  rules  to  see  the  prisoners  at  this 
hour,"  said  the  keeper,  "  yet  for  thy  long  walk  thou 
deservest  some  reward.  Thou  mayst  talk  to  the 
witch  for  a  few  moments.  But  be  cautious ;  go 
not  nigh  her,  for  she  hath  spells  we  know  not  of. 
If  ye  see  a  spider  or  a  toad  or  rat  in  her  cell,  call 
the  jailer." 

Some  moments  later  the  keeper  opened  the 
heavy  grated  door  and  admitted  Dorothy  into  the 
gloomy  cell.  Coming  so  suddenly  from  the  outside 
glare,  she  blinked  an  instant  in  the  darkness  before 
being  able  to  decipher  objects  before  her. 

Old  Goody  lay  upon  her  back  on  a  pile  of  straw 
in  the  corner  of  the  cell.  She  had  heavy  irons 
upon  her  arms  and  ankles.  The  small  shaft  of  light 
that  came  from  the  narrow  window  in  the  upper 
part  of  the  wall  shone  across  her  withered  features. 
She  looked  indeed  hideous  and  haglike. 


194  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

"  Goody,  Goody,"  said  Dorothy  softly,  stepping 
across  the  stone  floor  to  the  center  of  the  cell. 

"  Who  calls  me?  "  answered  the  cracked,  cackling 
voice  of  the  old  woman.  She  did  not  open  her 
eyes  or  move  as  she  spoke. 

"  I,  Goody,  a  friend."  The  girl  stepped  to  the 
poor  creature's  side  and  bent  over  her.  "  See,  I 
have  brought  thee  a  little  basket  of  good  things,  a 
roll  of  linen,  and  some  fine  salve  for  thy  sickness. 
Thou  surely  wilt  remember  me." 

Goody  opened  her  dim  eyes ;  a  spark  of  loving 
gratitude  shone  within  them.  "Ay,"  she  said,  "  I 
know  thee.  Could  I  forget  my  little  wild-flower  of 
the  forest?  Ah,  well  indeed  I  remember  the  night 
thou  earnest  to  bloom  for  me  in  my  poor  home." 

"  Hush,"  said  Dorothy,  holding  up  a  warning  fin 
ger,  "hush!"  As  she  spoke  the  jailer  passed  the 
door  of  the  cell,  placing  his  eye  to  the  grating  as  he 
did  so.  "  Be  cautious  ;  speak  lower,  I  beseech  thee." 

Goody  gazed  earnestly  at  the  pretty,  troubled 
face  bending  above  her. 

"  I  have  brought  these  things  for  thee ;  sec,  here 
are  some  sweetmeats  and  other  things  of  use,"  said 
Dorothy  in  a  high  voice,  for  the  edification  of  the 
jailer. 


DOROTHY'S  CONTRITION.  195 

"  Are  these  all  for  me?  "  queried  Goody.  "  Was 
it  thy  pretty  face,  then,  that  gained  thee  admittance 
to  the  jail  ?  Thou  art  my  only  friend  ;  no  one  has 
yet  called  to  see  the  poor  old  witch.  They  deem 
me  lost,  yet  I  have  done  no  harm;  I  am  but  a  poor 
distraught  creature  whom  man  maligns." 

"  One  will  come  to  see  thee  perchance  to-mor 
row,"  said  Dorothy  earnestly,  "  and  I  implore  thee, 
speak  not  of  me  to  him.  I  have  called  to-day  with 
a  double  purpose — to  see  thee,  to  comfort  thee,  and 
to  tell  thee  this.'' 

"Why  this  secret,  child?"  said  Goody,  rising 
from  her  lowly  bed,  and  looking  sharply  at  the 
partly  averted  face  opposite  her. 

"  I  cannot  tell  thee  why,  yet  I  do  implore  thee, 
speak  not  of  me,  of  ever  having  known  me.  This 
is  more  than  life  to  me.  O  Goody,  Goody,  if  thou 
hast  ever  loved  me,  promise  me  this."  Dorothy 
clasped  her  hands  and  looked  beseechingly  at  the 
troubled  face  of  the  old  woman. 

"  I  surely  will  grant  any  wish  of  thine ;  I  could 
not  refuse  it,  my  faithful  little  comforter." 

"  I  thank  thee,  Goody,  so  much,  and  I  fear  sorely 
for  thee ;  these  cruel  men  have  punished  thee 
greatly.  Would  I  could  aid  thee !  When  I  was  ill 


196  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

no  one  could  be  kinder  than  thou  wert  to  me,  and  I 
am  grateful.  I  had  a  little  gold  saved ;  I  made  it 
by  my  own  spinning.  Perchance  it  may  buy  thee 
some  little  comfort ;  thou  canst  bribe  the  jailer.  It 
is  in  the  basket  underneath  the  box  of  salve."  The 
tears  were  running  down  Dorothy's  face  as  she 
spoke. 

"  Weep  not,"  said  the  old  woman ;  "  it  is  but  for 
a  little  while.  I  am  very  old  and  sick ;  my  ap 
pointed  time  is  near.  Pray  ye  that  God  will  call 
me  to  Himself  soon." 

"  I  will,  I  will ;  every  day  will  I  pray  for  thee.  I 
love  thee,  Goody,  thou  hast  been  so  kind  to  me. 
Would  I  were  possessed  of  power  to  unbar  thy 
prison  doors!"  She  smoothed  the  wrinkled  cheek, 
then  kissed  her  gently.  "  To-morrow,  when  he 
comes,  he  will  comfort  thee ;  he  is  so  good,  so  just ; 
but  remember  thy  promise — I  am  a  stranger  to 
thee." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  remember." 

"  And  now,  now  the  time  is  up ;  I  hear  the  jailer 
coming.  I  will  bid  thee  farewell." 

"  Farewell,  little  forest  bloom.  Perchance  when 
we  meet  again  it  will  be  in  a  better  world  than 
this." 


DOROTHY'S  CONTRITION.  197 

"Ay,  Goody,  God  will  it  so  some  day." 

"  Mistress,  time  is  up,"  called  the  stern  voice  of 
the  jailer. 

Goody  lay  back  upon  her  straw  bed,  and  Doro 
thy  passed  from  the  gloom  and  dampness  of  the 
prison  out  into  the  sunlight. 

When  she  reached  the  narrow  lane  that  led  to 
the  farm  it  was  growing  dark.  She  was  exhausted 
from  her  great  exertion  and  the  nervous  excitement 
of  the  day;  her  limbs  trembled  beneath  her,  her 
face  was  flushed,  and  dark  rings  encircled  her  eyes. 
She  seated  herself  upon  a  rustic  stile  for  a  few  mo 
ments  to  rest  and  gain  composure  before  entering 
the  house,  and  as  she  did  so  beheld  Wentworth 
coming  hastily  across  the  great  grass-meadow  that 
lay  near  the  shore  and  which  sloped  downward  to 
the  harbor.  He  came  directly  toward  her,  waving 
his  hand  in  welcome  as  he  approached.  She  arose 
to  meet  him,  advancing  a  few  steps.  He  smiled  as 
he  accosted  her.  "  I  wot  this  has  been  a  weary 
day  for  thee,"  he  said ;  "  the  Leavitt  place  is  a 
good  three  miles  from  here.  Didst  walk  all  the 
way?  Thy  aunt  has  told  me  it  was  a  sudden  re 
solve  on  thy  part  to  make  this  visit.  Thou  art  a 
whimsical  little  one,"  he  laughed. 


198  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

"  I  walked  all  the  way,"  she  answered  wearily. 

"  We  will  not  go  to  the  house,"  he  said  presently. 
"  Come  to  the  shore  and  rest ;  I  have  much  to  say 
to  thee,  and  the  time  is  short." 

"No,  no,"  she  answered;  "I  must  go  home,  I 
must  see  Aunt  Martha,  and  I  am  very  tired." 

"  I  am  more  important  than  Aunt  Martha,  am  I 
not?  "  He  laughed  again.  "  Come  with  me  to  the 
shore." 

She  took  a  step  forward,  then  one  backward,  still 
hesitating.  A  strange  mood  was  upon  her.  In 
shadowy  outline  she  beheld  that  other  self  close  be 
side  her,  holding  up  a  warning  finger,  her  lips  fram 
ing  the  words,  "Thy  last  chance."  "  Methinks  it 
is  damp  by  the  sea,"  she  said ;  "  I  like  not  to  cross 
those  marshy  pools  at  evening."  She  spoke  like  a 
fretful  child. 

He  laughed  once  more,  then  taking  her  by  the 
hand  led  her  across  the  salt  marshes  down  to  the 
shore.  She  did  not  object  further,  but  followed  as 
in  a  dream.  Looking  far  over  the  water,  her  gaze 
upon  the  sails  of  a  vessel  in  the  distance,  her  hand 
within  her  lover's,  won  by  his  earnest  solicitation 
she  named  the  wedding-day.  As  she  named  it  a 
cold  horror  took  possession  of  her  and  made  her 


DOROTHY'S  CONTRITION.  199 

shiver  and  tremble.  Was  it  the  forerunner  of  the 
breeze  that  stirred  the  ocean,  as  yet  miles  away, 
where  it  lay  like  a  dark  mantle  upon  the  wide  ex 
panse  of  water?  She  knew  not.  She  drew  her 
cloak  more  closely  about  her  and  glanced  fixedly  as 
if  fascinated  at  the  profile  of  the  strong  face  beside 
her. 

"  Wilt  thou  ever  be  harsh  to  me,  Alden,  if  I  of 
fend  thee?"  she  said  wistfully,  her  pretty,  sensitive 
lips  quivering  as  she  spoke. 

"  No,  dearest,  I  never  will  be  harsh  to  thee." 

"  If  I  did  something  that  was  very  wrong?"  she 
urged. 

"  Nothing  that  thou  wilt  do  could  be  very 
wrong;  so  long  as  thou  art  true  and  sincere,  and 
thy  love  is  mine,  I  can  ask  no  more  of  thee." 

"  And  thou  wouldst  never  believe  evil  of  me?  " 

"  Thou  couldst  do  no  evil ;  that  word  belongs  not 
to  thee,"  he  said  quickly. 

It  was  quite  dark  now,  and  the  outline  of  the  dis 
tant  vessel  on  the  horizon  that  was  sailing  swiftly 
before  the  wind  had  faded  from  view ;  a  flock  of 
seagulls  were  flying  toward  the  south,  calling  loudly 
and  in  discordant  notes ;  the  soft  lap  of  the  waves 
on  the  beach  sounded  faintly  in  their  ears ;  in  the 


2OO  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

sky  hung  the  beautiful  evening  star.  Dorothy 
arose  from  her  low  position,  and  standing  before 
Wentworth  spake  words  that  sounded  incompre 
hensible  in  his  ears. 

"  Alden,  Alden,"  her  voice  rang  with  a  pathos 
and  deep  regret,  "  wilt  thou  blot  out  all  that  has 
gone  from  thy  memory — all,  all,  and  take  me  from 
this  moment  as  I  am,  and  with  the  help  of  One  who 
is  above  us  all?  I  will  be  to  thee  so  true,  so  faith 
ful,  that  no  reproach  shall  ever  fall  from  thy  lips 
for  my  misdeeds.  I  come  to  thee,  Alden,  with  no 
past;  I  am  born  anew  in  thy  love." 

"  My  dearest,  my  little  Dorothy!"  That  was  all 
he  said.  He  could  not  understand  her  vehemence, 
her  tone  of  entreaty,  and  her  pale  face  startled  him. 
"  Thou  art  tired ;  this  has  been  a  hard  day  for 
thee." 

She  clasped  her  hands  tightly  in  her  lap  and 
spoke  no  further.  He  did  not  understand  her  and 
she  could  not  explain.  They  walked  home,  over 
the  fields,  in  the  sweet,  mild  night.  The  air  from 
the  sea  blew  in  their  faces ;  the  solemnity  of  the 
evening  hour  cast  its  pensive  spell  upon  them,  com 
pelling  them  to  silence. 

The  wedding  was  to  take  place  in  June,  but  a 


DOROTHY  S   CONTRITION.  2OI 

short  time  hence  ;  yet  why  delay  ?  The  bridal  out 
fit  was  ready,  the  new  house  was  ready,  and  the 
lover  urgent. 

That  night,  as  Dorothy  sat  in  her  casement  win 
dow  brooding  deeply  upon  her  sad  position,  she  fell 
asleep,  her  head  leaning  upon  the  window-ledge, 
the  dews  falling  upon  her  hair,  and  the  chill  night 
air  blowing  over  her.  In  this  sleep  she  was  visited 
by  a  dream,  or  rather  by  a  vision — a  vision  clear 
and  startling  in  its  significance.  She  appeared  to  be 
wandering  alone  in  a  dreary  valley ;  great  cypress- 
trees  grew  thick  about  her  path,  obscuring  the  light 
of  the  sun.  At  her  feet  were  pools  and  morasses, 
slimy  and  green ;  horrid  creeping  things  appeared 
and  disappeared  from  out  their  stagnant  waters. 
The  scene  was  dismal  in  the  extreme,  and  fraught 
with  great  danger ;  to  advance  or  to  retreat  seemed 
equally  hazardous.  Suddenly  a  figure  shining  with 
an  unearthly  luster  came  forth  from  beneath  the 
drooping  boughs  of  the  trees.  This  bright  being 
was  clothed  in  flowing  drapery,  and  upon  its  fore 
head  was  a  star  that  shone  as  with  the  light  of  the 
sun,  its  powerful  rays  spreading  through  all  the 
lands  of  the  earth.  Dorothy  trembled  and  stood 
motionless.  "  My  child,  my  child,"  she  heard  a 


202  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

voice  of  rarest  sweetness  say,  "  there  is  but  one 
way  for  thee."  As  these  words  were  uttered,  the 
wondrous  stranger  pointed  to  a  narrow  path  that 
led  beyond  the  pools  and  morasses  and  noisome 
reptiles.  "At  the  end  of  this  path  is  the  temple  of 
truth ;  I  am  its  guardian.  Behold,  I  have  opened 
the  way."  Dorothy  held  out  her  hand,  but  her 
radiant  guide  had  disappeared  as  mysteriously  as 
she  came. 

Dorothy  stirred  uneasily  and  awoke.  Her  hair 
and  face  were  clammy  from  the  falling  dews,  and 
the  night  air  caused  her  to  shiver ;  but  she  paid  no 
heed  to  these  discomforts.  Going  to  her  dressing- 
table  she  took  from  it  paper  and  pens.  Seating 
herself,  she  wrote  a  full  confession  of  her  flight  with 
Grenville.  After  having  finished  this  task,  she  held 
the  letter  in  her  hand  an  instant,  looking  sadly 
down  upon  the  folded  paper.  "  My  death  war 
rant,"  she  murmured,  "signed  by  mine  own  hand." 
Then  she  placed  the  document  beneath  her  pillow 
and  crept  quietly  into  bed. 

She  did  not  sleep  during  the  remaining  hours  of 
the  night ;  her  mind  remained  full  of  activity ;  she 
lived  again  through  the  scenes  of  her  past  life.  As 
regarded  her  future  she  made  no  prophecies,  rea- 


DOROTHY'S  CONTRITION.  203 

soning  thus  with  herself :  "  Without  Alden  there 
will  be  for  me  no  future,  only  a  blank  lapse  of 
time."  That  he  would  forgive  her,  she  did  not  for 
one  moment  dream.  Had  she  not  been  living  a 
lie  ?  His  faith  in  her  would  be  forever  shaken,  and 
without  faith  his '  affection  would  be  incomplete. 
She  must  reap  as  she  had  sown ;  she  must  bow  her 
head  to  the  whirlwind ;  it  was  her  righteous  pun 
ishment.  A  falsehood  could  never  win  for  her  the 
kingdom  on  this  earth  that  she  desired ;  she  must 
build  her  hopes  on  a  firmer  foundation. 

When  the  morning  dawned  she  arose  weak  and 
languid,  scarce  able  to  leave  her  room.  She  crushed 
back  the  tears,  and  forcing  her  countenance  into  a 
semblance  of  repose  she  descended  to  the  kitchen. 

"  Alden  has  been  here,"  said  her  aunt,  looking 
up  from  her  work ;  "  he  stopped  to  leave-  thee 
these  blossoms.  He  was  on  horseback,  on  his  way 
to  Ipswich ;  he  will  be  gone  two  days.  He  is  a 
kindly  man  to  thus  interest  himself  in  these  unfort 
unate  old  women." 

"  I  saw  him  pass  from  my  casement,"  said  Doro 
thy  listlessly,  taking  the  flowers  from  her  aunt's 
hand  as  she  spoke,  her  heart  giving  a  joyful  bound 
of  relief  at  the  news  of  this  respite.  She  had  de- 


2O4  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

cided  that  no  one  should  hand  Wentworth  the  con 
fession  save  herself,  and  now  fate  had  doled  out  to 
her  forty-eight  hours  in  which  to  reconsider  her 
decision. 

A  remarkable  change  took  place  in  Dorothy's  de 
meanor;  it  was  as  if  a  prisoner  condemned  to  die 
had  received  the  tidings  of  a  new  trial.  She  smiled, 
chatted,  then  walked  with  a  song  upon  her  lips 
down  the  flower-bordered  paths  of  the  old-fash 
ioned  garden.  A  certain  self-congratulation  as 
sailed  her.  Had  she  not  the  means  at  hand  to 
debase  herself?  Had  she  not  of  her  own  free  will 
yielded  up  all  she  valued  ?  Why  begrudge  her 
these  few  hours  of  peace?  As  if  in  mockery  to  the 
sincerity  of  her  atonement,  she  eagerly  grasped  at 
this  slight  temporary  delay. 

All  her  light-heartedness  and  buoyancy  of  spirits 
returned  to  her.  She  seated  herself  beneath  a 
flowering  fruit-tree,  close  to  the  old  dial.  In  the 
darkness  and  silence  of  night  the  mysterious  mes 
sage  brought  by  the  beautiful  dream  visitor  had 
impressed  itself  upon  her  emotional  nature  with  all 
the  distinctness  of  a  command  from  above.  In 
the  light  of  day,  amidst  the  charms  of  nature,  the 
vision  became  as  other  dreams  that  pass  away,  leav- 


DOROTHY'S  CONTRITION.  205 

ing  in  its  place  but  a  faint  shadow  of  its  unreal 
presence. 

"  I  have  not  done  so  very  wrong,"  she  thought ; 
"  I  will  keep  the  confession,  and  not  tell  him  yet. 
I  will  think  further  upon  it.  I  was  alarmed  at  the 
dream  last  night.  Why  should  I  thus  throw  away 
my  happiness?"  As  she  argued  thus,  she  walked 
down  the  box-bordered  path. 

When  she  neared  the  confines  of  the  garden,  she 
noticed  a  tall  figure  coming  down  the  country  road. 
It  was  the  figure  of  a  woman  walking  swiftly. 
Dorothy  saw  that  it  was  Elizabeth  Hubbard.  The 
latter  did  not  glance  toward  the  girl  in  the  garden 
path  until  immediately  opposite  her;  then  she 
veered  round  excitedly,  as  if  compelled  to  do  so  by 
an  impulse  beyond  her  control. 

"  Well,  Mistress  Dorothy,  a  good-morning  to 
thee."  She  paused,  then  continued  mockingly : 
"  So,  forsooth,  we  are  to  have  a  bride  after  all  at 
the  new  house  on  the  outskirts.  Dost  thou  know 
thy  mind  this  time,  or  wilt  thou  give  Salem  another 
surprise?"  As  she  spoke  she  looked  sharply  at 
Dorothy,  a  curious  expression  in  her  black,  staring 
eyes. 

"  Yes,   Elizabeth,"  said  Dorothy  simply,  "  I  am 


206  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

to  be  married ;  the  time  is  but  a  short  way  off 
now." 

"  I  wish  thee  luck ;  still,  I  ween  Mr.  Wentworth 
had  better  be  in  attendance  on  these  great  events  of 
the  day ;  he  is  ever  negligent  of  his  duties.  Dost 
thou  know  he  did  not  attend  the  three  last  trials  of 
the  witches?  He  spends  his  time  with  thee  to  the 
scandal  of  the  ministers  and  magistrates." 

Dorothy  flushed  angrily.  "  His  attention  to  me 
is  his  affair  and  mine,"  she  replied. 

Elizabeth  smiled.  "  I  will  not  quarrel  with  thee. 
Hast  thy  aunt  told  thee  of  the  wedding  gift  I  am 
weaving  for  thee?  " 

"  No;  is  it  fine?"  asked  Dorothy  eagerly. 

"  Ay,  fine  and  strong.  When  thou  art  married  I 
will  give  it  thee.  If  thou  dost  not  marry  Alden 
Wentworth,  then  it  shall  not  be  thine." 

"Perchance  it  is  a  great  roll  of  linen?"  queried 
Dorothy. 

"Ha,  ha!"  laughed  Elizabeth.  "No,  not  linen; 
thou  shalt  know  in  time."  She  glanced  craftily  at 
Dorothy's  puzzled  countenance.  "  It  is  but  just 
begun,  though  I  work  swiftly,  and  I  protest  no 
other  gift  like  mine  shalt  thou  receive  among  all 
the  offerings  of  the  dames  of  the  town."  She  then 


DOROTHY'S  CONTRITION.  207 

passed  on  with  her  stately  step,  turning  back  her 
head  once  to  smile. 

Dorothy,  leaning  over  the  gate,  looked  after  her 
until  she  disappeared  from  view.  "  Elizabeth  is 
jealous,"  she  thought.  "  She  hates  me;  she  would 
be  in  my  place  if  she  could."  This  idea,  so  sud 
denly  suggested,  appalled  Dorothy.  Having  made 
her  bargain  of  self-sacrifice  she  had  not  taken  into 
account  the  possibility  of  another's  filling  her  place. 

She  had  pictured  Wentworth  alone  and  wretched, 
even  as  she  herself  would  be  alone  and  wretched. 
That  he  would  ever  yield  himself  to  the  charms  of 
another  was  poison  to  the  life  of  the  partly  formed 
resolve  of  confession.  "  She  shall  not  have  him ; 
he  is  mine,"  she  said  aloud. 

All  the  good  impulses  that  had  risen  within  her 
became  dulled,  stupefied,  by  this  unexpected  turn 
of  affairs.  She  could  renounce  him,  but  she  could 
not  give  him  into  the  keeping  of  another ;  that  was 
simply  beyond  all  power  of  will  she  possessed.  She 
remained  in  the  position  in  which  Elizabeth  had  left 
her  for  some  time,  looking  with  strained  eyes  down 
the  winding  road. 

At  last  she  turned  and  hastened  back  to  the 
farthermost  part  of  the  garden.  Beneath  the  roots 


208  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

of  a  spreading  shrub  that  grew  near  a  sheltered 
ledge  the  written  confession  was  buried.  After 
having  smoothed  the  earth  above  it,  she  stood  a 
moment  irresolute.  "  It  is  written,"  she  thought, 
"  and  at  some  future  day  I  will  take  Jt  from  its 
place  and  tell  him,  but  not  now,  not  now." 

The  feeling  that  she  had  accomplished  at  least 
one  step  in  the  right  direction  served  to  impress  her 
with  the  sense  of  a  possible  entrance  at  some  future 
time  into  the  confidence  of  one  to  whom  she  owed 
much.  To  be  sure,  the  paper  was  but  an  inanimate 
object,  but  she  had  written  it  with  the  right  inten 
tion  ;  that  was  certainly  a  good  beginning. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE     MARRIAGE. 

SWEETLY  bloomed  the  wild  roses  along  the  way 
side  on  that  bright  June  morning  long  ago  when 
Dorothy  and  Wentworth  were  married  in  the  little 
Salem  meeting-house.  The  atmosphere  was  redo 
lent  with  the  sweet  scents  of  the  early  summer,  the 
lilacs  were  in  bloom,  the  foliage  upon  the  trees  was 
fresh  and  green.  The  harbor  was  bathed  in  sun 
light,  and  far  distant,  where  its  waters  joined  the 
sea,  it  sparkled  with  the  glitter  of  brilliant  gold. 
Bees  and  butterflies  darted  through  the  air;  and 
the  birds  fluttering  near  the  little  church  blended 
their  clear  notes  with  the  strains  of  the  marriage 
hymn,  the  scarlet-crested  songster  mingling  his  lark- 
like  tones  with  the  sad  cadence  of  some  forest  wan 
derer. 

All  the  people  of  the  settlement  turned  out  to  do 
honor  to  the  wedding  of  the  handsome,  distin 
guished,  popular  Judge  Wentworth.  Some  were 

present   from   interest,  many  from   curiosity.     The 

209 


2IO  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

wedding  was  a  welcome  break  in  the  midst  of  the 
terrible  depression  that  lay  like  a  mantle  of  death 
upon  the  spirits  of  the  multitude.  But  a  few  days 
previous  one  of  the  professed  witches  had  been  exe 
cuted  on  Gallows  Hill,  in  the  presence  of  most  of 
those  now  watching  stolidly  the  simple  ceremony  of 
the  Puritan  marriage. 

Dorothy  moved  like  a  white  spirit  from  another 
sphere,  so  emotionless,  so  passive  did  she  seem.  Her 
lovely  head  drooped  like  a  lily  on  its  stalk ;  her  face 
was  pale  in  the  midst  of  the  pretty  bridal  finery ; 
her  eyes  were  downcast,  and  the  hands  that  clasped 
the^  psalm-book  trembled  slightly.  Her  voice  was 
scarcely  audible  in  the  responses. 

When  she  passed  out  into  the  brilliant  light  of 
the  bright  day,  she  shuddered  even  in  the  warmth 
of  the  sun,  and  when  her  neighbors  pressed  about 
her,  and  addressed  her  by  her  new  name,  Dorothy 
Wentworth,  she  listened  eagerly,  yet  did  not  seem 
to  understand  its  significance.  She  stood  an  instant 
upon  the  upper  steps  of  the  church  porch,  and 
glanced  languidly  over  the  heads  of  the  people.  Her 
hand  rested  tremblingly  upon  her  husband's  arm. 

Suddenly  a  spasm  of  fear  crossed  her  features — a 
visible  contraction  of  the  muscles  of  her  mouth,  a 


THE    MARRIAGE.  211 

nervous  closing  of  her  lips.  In  that  curious  watch 
ing  throng  she  had  recognized  one  countenance,  the 
handsome  mocking  face  of  Sir  Grenville  Lawson, 
his  gorgeous  apparel  and  great  cavalier's  hat  mak 
ing  him  most  noticeable  among  his  more  somberly 
attired  neighbors.  -She  gazed  upon  him  as  if  fas 
cinated,  her  glance  riveted  upon  his  bold  eyes — 
those  eyes  that  compelled  her  attention  by  that 
mesmeric  force  that  once  had  won  her  from  her  true 
allegiance.  In  her  thoughts  she  had  dreaded  this 
possible  encounter  at  some  future  time,  but  had 
put  it  aside  with  all  its  accompanying  danger,  and 
in  desperation  had  taken  the  great  risk. 

There  was  an  inscrutable  expression  upon  the  face 
of  Sir  Grenville  as  he  watched  her  intently.  Though 
his  features  remained  passive,  yet  to  one  knowing 
him  as  Dorothy  did  there  were  manifest  tokens  of 
his  more  than  common  interest  in  the  scene  before 
him. 

Involuntarily  she  drew  nearer  to  Wentworth  and 
caught  his  hand  convulsively.  As  she  did  this,  she 
heard  a  whisper  in  her  ear,  and  turning  beheld  the 
dark  countenance  of  Elizabeth  close  beside  her. 

"  I  do  present  all  well  wishes  for  a  happy  life  to 
the  bride,"  she  said,  bowing  low  as  she  spoke,  and 


212  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

inclining  her  head  mockingly.  "  That  well- woven 
gift  I  promised  thee  shall  be  thine  in  good  time." 

"  I  thank  thee,  Elizabeth,"  said  Dorothy,  her  white 
lips  forming  the  words  mechanically,  her  ears  scarce 
hearing  them. 

"  Dearest,"  said  Wentworth  in  a  whisper,  watch 
ing  the  deathlike  countenance  of  his  bride,  "  this 
has  been  too  much  for  thee ;  we  will  hasten  to 
the  farmhouse  for  the  feast,  and  there  thou  canst 
rest." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  answered,  "  let  us  get  away,  and 
quickly." 

So  the  bride  and  groom  walked  across  the  flower 
ing  meadows,  followed  by  the  invited  guests,  to  par 
take  of  the  collation  spread  in  the  best  room  of  the 
farmhouse.  When  Dorothy  reached  the  door  of 
the  house  she  looked  back.  Upon  the  brow  of  the 
hill  she  beheld  Sir  Grenville  standing  motionless,  his 
figure  outlined  against  the  sky,  his  face  turned  to 
ward  her. 

Wentworth's  eyes  followed  the  direction  of  her 
gaze.  "  Tis  that  godless  fellow  from  England,"  he 
said.  "This  is  thrice  he  has  been  to  the  settlement; 
twice  since  thou  hast  been  away.  I  know  not  what 
brings  him  hither,  save,  perchance,  a  morbid  interest 


THE    MARRIAGE.  213 

in  the  witch-trials.  His  silly  fopperies  do  bemean 
a  man;  I  scorn  such  empty  pates." 

A  low,  gasping  sound  issued  from  Dorothy's  lips. 
"Alden,  I  am  wearied."  She  tried  to  smile.  "  It 
was  the  heat  of  the  meeting-house;  I  am  not  quite 
as  strong  as  I  was  a  year  ago ;  let  us  go  within  the 
house." 

So  the  friends  and  neighbors  took  part  in  the 
sober  festivities,  and  in  the  cool  of  the  pleasant 
evening  Dorothy  went  to  her  new  home,  the  fine 
house  on  the  outskirts. 

After  Sir  Grenville's  fruitless  attempt  to  recover 
his  escaping  prey,  as  related  in  a  previous  chapter, 
he  took  up  his  abode  near  the  borders  of  the  woods, 
confidently  expecting  that  hunger  and  fear  would 
eventually  drive  Dorothy  forth  from  her  hiding- 
place.  He  dismissed  the  two  men  whom  he  had 
employed  to  assist  him  in  case  she  should  prove 
fractious  after  hearing  the  disclosures  he  intended 
to  make  in  regard  to  his  previous  marriage. 

"  Now  mind,  you  fellows,"  he  had  said,  "  I  have 
paid  you  well,  and  I  give  you  added  gold  to  keep 
your  mouths  shut." 

"A  sorry  trick  she  played  you,"  said  one  of  the 
men,  smirking. 


214  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

"Hold  your  insolence!"  cried  Sir  Grenville  an 
grily.  "  How  dare  you  discuss  the  affairs  of  your 
betters?"  Then  he  hesitated  and  appeared  to  be 
considering  deeply.  "  If  I  need  you  further  I  shall 
acquaint  you  with  my  wishes." 

"  Very  well ;  we  are  always  ready  to  earn  a  little 
gold ;  any  business,  so  long  as  it  pays,"  said  one  of 
the  men  eagerly. 

"  I  am  aware  of  that,"  said  Grenville,  eying  the 
evil  face  before  him  contemptuously.  "  That  is  all 
for  the  present ;  when  I  need  you  I  will  send  a  mes 
sage." 

Sir  Grenville's  little  plot  had  been  a  failure ;  still 
he  could  not  leave  Salem,  but  returned  twice  to  the 
town  to  wait  and  watch.  Like  the  moth  that  flut 
ters  round  the  decoying  candle,  he  haunted  the 
vicinity  of  his  thwarted  plans.  She  could  not  be 
dead,  that  he  would  not  believe ;  fate  would  cer 
tainly  play  into  his  hands  in  time ;  he  would  be 
patient  and  wait.  So  by  chance  he  met  her  once 
again  standing  in  her  dainty  bridal  dress  upon  the 
steps  of  the  church  porch. 

As  he  watched  her  an  intense  anger  took  posses 
sion  of  him,  an  uncontrollable  rage.  She  had  escaped 
him,  and  by  a  way  in  which  he  could  not  follow  ;  she 


THE    MARRIAGE.  215 

was  beyond  his  reach  forever.  If  it  had  been  possi 
ble  to  have  taken  revenge  upon  her  then  and  there, 
to  have  crushed  her,  humiliated  her,  ruined  her,  he 
would  have  done  so.  But  what  would  that  avail 
him,  he  reasoned,  now  that  she  was  married  ?  No, 
he  would  let  her  suffer  the  agony  and  fear  of  his 
daily  presence  ;  he  would  thus  torture  her,  make  her 
life  a  spell  of  constant  dread. 

Being  a  keen  judge  of  human  nature,  he  appre 
ciated  fully  the  manner  of  man  Wentworth  repre 
sented.  Grenville  felt  confident  he  knew  nothing 
of  the  elopement  escapade.  His  rigid  puritanical 
code  would  have  forbidden  a  union  with  one  upon 
whom  the  finger  of  scandal  could  place  its  scathing 
mark.  What  her  story  had  been,  Sir  Grenville  could 
not  conjecture.  He  gave  her  credit,  however,  for  a 
greater  subtlety  than  he  had  believed  she  possessed, 
knowing  that  she  must  have  succeeded  well  in  de 
ceiving  all  parties.  So  Sir  Grenville  took  up  his 
abode  in  the  village. 

He  passed  the  new  house  daily,  often  glancing 
toward  the  partly  opened  casement,  from  which  a 
form  would  quickly  retreat  at  his  approach.  Then 
he  would  smile  wickedly  to  himself.  "  She  fears 
me.  Well,  I  have  her  in  my  power.  The  little 


2l6  DOROTHY   THE    PURITAN. 

bride  most  surely  lives  a  life  of  torture ;  full  well  I 
know  she  has  a  sensitive  nature.  My  presence  is 
not  so  welcome,  I  trow,  as  when  she  sat  beside  me 
in  the  forest." 

Sir  Grenville  conjectured  truly  when  he  described 
Dorothy's  existence  as  torture.  She  knew  no  rest, 
day  or  night.  The  appalling  knowledge  of  his  near 
presence,  the  constant  dread  of  disclosure,  the  intui 
tive  perception  that  he  had  undertaken  some  scheme 
of  revenge,  made  every  hour  a  wretched  ordeal. 
She  comprehended  her  husband  thoroughly. 

He  was  a  man  of  great  uprightness  and  unstained 
honor.  Perhaps  in  these  days  he  would  be  consid 
ered  narrow  and  prejudiced  ;  that,  however,  was  not 
the  fault  of  his  mind,  but  caused  rather  by  his  creed 
and  environments.  He  had  a  code  of  morality  that 
allowed  of  no  diverging ;  it  was  a  straight  line  with 
out  softening  curves.  Yet  he  was  unsuspicious, 
loving,  and  tender,  capable  of  a  great  and  enduring 
affection. 

The  horrors  of  the  witchcraft  delusion  were  in 
creasing.  A  month  had  passed  since  Dorothy's 
marriage ;  it  was  now  approaching  the  latter  part  of 
July. 

On  the  i  Qth  of  July  five  condemned  witches,  after 


THE    MARRIAGE.  21  7 

a  mere  mockery  of  a  trial,  had  been  executed. 
These  victims  were  Sarah  Good,  Sarah  Wildes,  Eliz 
abeth  How,  Rebecca  Nurse,  and  Susanna  Martin. 
Their  accusers  were  the  afflicted  girls,  prominent 
amongst  whom  figured  Elizabeth. 

These  trials  were  attended  by  most  astonishing 
proceedings.  The  accused  had  no  council  to  plead 
their  cause ;  they  simply  were  called  upon  to  answer 
a  number  of  absurd  and  conflicting  questions.  These 
trials  were  constantly  interrupted  by  fearful  perform 
ances  executed  by  the  five  cold-blooded  girls,  who, 
we  trust,  were  ignorant  of  the  great  evil  they  were 
doing,  and  in  which  they  apparently  gloried. 

Susanna  Martin  stands  out  prominently  against 
the  dark  background  of  this  dread  period.  She 
was  a  widow  living  alone.  Having,  it  is  presumed, 
incurred  the  enmity  of  the  magic  circle,  she  was 
arrested  on  a  charge  of  witchcraft  and  thrown  into 
prison.  When  brought  to  her  trial  before  the  magis 
trates  and  many  prominent  personages,  she  stood 
her  ground  defiantly,  and  answered  in  a  fearless 
manner.  When  she  was  brought  before  the  judges 
for  the  final  verdict,  the  witnesses  immediately  went 
into  fits.  One  of  them  on  recovering  threw  her 
glove  at  the  undaunted  woman ;  another  declared 


2l8  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

that  she  was  choking  her;  the  rest  were  struck 
dumb,  their  tongues  refusing  to  move. 

"  Of  a  certainty  she  is  a  witch,"  cried  the  learned 
judge. 

Susanna  laughed,  saying  such  folly  was  beyond 
her. 

"  Is  it  folly  to  see  these  children  hurt?  " 

"  I  never  hurt  man,  woman,  or  child,"  she  an 
swered. 

At  this  one  of  the  girls  shrieked,  "  She  is  hurting 
me  now!  I  am  in  torment!"  So  the  farce  went 
on,  and  the  courageous  woman  met  her  fate  on 
Gallows  Hill. 

The  girls  now  began  to  have  all  honors  conferred 
upon  them,  being  treated  with  the  greatest  respect 
and  consideration.  Their  words  were  listened  to 
as  though  they  possessed  the  power  of  the  oracles 
of  old.  They  went  from  village  to  village,  accom 
panied  by  an  escort,  ferreting  out  witches.  Woe 
be  to  the  one  that  incurred  their  displeasure  by  ex 
pressing  doubt  of  the  purity  of  their  motives! 

This  acuteness  displayed  in  detecting  a  witch  was 
considered  a  peculiar  gift,  conferred  by  Providence 
upon  these  now  all-powerful  girls.  They  became 
the  instruments,  as  it  were,  to  cleanse  the  earth  of 


THE    MARRIAGE.  2  19 

this  foul  plague-spot.  When  they  "  cried  out,"  as 
it  was  called,  upon  a  suspected  person,  the  unfortu 
nate  individual  was  summarily  dispatched  to  the 
prison  to  await  trial  on  their  evidence. 

It  seems  hardly  possible,  looking  backward 
through  the  dim  mists  of  years,  that  such  an  igno 
rant  delusion  should  have  gained  the  prominence  it 
did  in  an  enlightened  and  God-fearing  community. 
Yet  great  and  undoubtedly  sincere  men  authorized 
the  law  to  take  its  course,  the  legislature  making 
provision  for  all  necessary  expenses  incurred  for  the 
trials  of  the  accused  witches. 

Dorothy  took  no  part  in  the  general  consterna 
tion.  She  crouched  upon  her  knees  upon  the  floor 
when  the  cart  containing  the  condemned  passed  the 
windows  of  her  house,  not  daring  to  look  forth. 

"  God  pity  them,  God  pity  them ! "  she  moaned. 
"O  Goody,  Goody!"  And  she  placed  her  fingers 
to  her  ears  to  still  the  cries  and  execrations  that 
arose  upon  the  air  from  the  jeering  crowds  that 
followed.  She  was  in  a  condition  bordering  upon 
frenzy ;  she  realized  that  she  would  succumb  to  a 
serious  bodily  ailment  did  her  tortured  mind  not 
soon  find  relief.  She  was  suffering  acutely  from 
this  unnatural  condition  one  morning  while  standing 


22O  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

in  the  diminutive  garden  that  lay  between  tehh  ouse 
and  the  road. 

Wentworth  had  just  bade  her  farewell,  as  he  ex 
pected  to  be  absent  for  the  day.  He  was  going  to 
the  presiding  judges,  to  endeavor  to  use  his  influ 
ence  in  preventing  the  contemplated  arrest  of  a 
lady,  high  in  social  position  and  of  great  goodness 
and  purity,  one  upon  whom  the  avenging  circle  had 
cast  its  evil  eye.  He  was  in  much  distress  of  mind 
when  he  took  his  departure,  and  did  not  look  back, 
as  was  his  wont,  but  walked  hurriedly  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  abode  of  Mr.  Parris. 

Dorothy  watched  him  out  of  sight,  scarce  seeing 
him  for  the  mist  of  tears  that  gathered  in  her  eyes. 
"If  he  knew!  Oh,  if  he  knew!  Yet  could  the 
misery  of  that  knowledge  and  his  contempt  be 
greater  than  what  I  suffer  now?"  She  turned 
wearily  aside  and  stooped  over  some  beds  of  simple 
flowers,  touching  them  tenderly  and  inhaling  their 
sweet  fragrance.  She  was  not  aware,  in  her  absorp 
tion,  of  the  approach  of  a  stranger,  till  a  shadow  fell 
across  the  flower-bed.  She  turned  quickly,  to  en 
counter  Sir  Grenville's  mocking  gaze. 

"  Sir  Grenville,"  she  gasped,  placing  her  hand  to 
her  side  and  stepping  backward,  "  what  dost  thou 


THE    MARRIAGE.  221 

seek?  Hast  thou  not  injured  me  enough?  Must 
thou  remain  to  look  upon  thy  work?" 

"  Dorothy,"  he  said,  and  the  old  sweet  seductive 
ness  was  audible  in  his  voice,  "  think  not  so  evil  of 
me.  You  have  escaped  me,  but  I  am  not  wholly 
depraved.  I  shall  not  seek  revenge  in  the  way  that 
you  seem  to  fear:  I  shall  never  tell  your  husband. 
What  would  that  profit  me,  save  to  incur  your 
hatred?  No,  no,  I  work  from  deeper  motives." 

"  What  wilt  thou  do,  then  ?  What  can  I  do  that 
will  send  thee  from  this  place,  that  I  may  see  thee 
no  more?  Tell  me,  tell  me!" 

Sir  Grenville  laughed  softly.  "  I  shall  stay  here, 
my  fair  pupil ;  it  is  my  present  wish.  And  another 
reason  chains  me  to  this  spot :  the  fascination  of 
your  presence  has  not  been  dispelled  as  yet.  I 
have  not  forgotten  you,  Dorothy,  and  our  little  love 
idyl  in  yonder  forest,  while  the  good  and  learned 
judge  in  all  innocence  deemed  you  dreaming  of 
him,  perchance.  Dost  think  six  months  a  lifetime 
and  my  memory  defective?" 

She  flushed  painfully  at  these  words.  "  I  can 
acquaint  my  husband  myself;  then  thou  canst  have 
no  power  over  me." 

"  Yes,  but  you  will  not.     You  have  learned  to 


222  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

know  the  man  as  I  read  him  when  I  first  beheld 
him  by  your  side.  Rouse  him  not,  Dorothy ;  light 
not  the  flames  of  a  temperament  such  as  his,  or  the 
destiny  that  lies  before  you  as  his  wife  I  dare  not 
picture." 

She  shuddered,  and  turned  piteously  upon  him. 
''  For  the  affection  thou  once  professed  for  me,  when 
I  believed  thy  words,"  he  winced  at  this  speech, 
"have  pity  on  me,  molest  me  no  further!  Canst 
thou  not  see  the  fear  of  thy  presence  is  killing  me  ? 
Yes,  killing  me !  At  times  I  wish  that  death  might 
come,  that  I  might  find  rest  in  yonder  churchyard, 
if  such  a  false  heart  as  mine  can  find  rest  anywhere." 
She  passed  her  hand  across  her  brow,  pushing  back 
the  heavy  curls  of  hair.  He  noticed  how  thin  her 
hand  was,  how  clearly  the  blue  veins  showed  be 
neath  the  skin. 

"  I  shall  not  molest  you — simply  pass  your  house 
occasionally.  That  will  not  cause  suspicion  to  rest 
upon  you.  I  shall  never  seek  to  recognize  you  in 
public.  Yet  for  the  trick  you  played  me,  I  must 
seek  a  little  quiet  revenge,  by  remaining  near  the 
shy  bird  that  but  for  a  silly,  mawkish  touch  of  feel 
ing  I  had  so  nearly  snared.  Bah,"  he  continued 
angrily,  "  what  a  fool  I  was,  to  let  sentiment  over- 


THE    MARRIAGE.  223 

rule  me !  But  for  that  weakness  you  would  be 
with  me  now  beyond  the  seas,  away  from  these 
soured  old  Puritans,  who  make  life  a  curse  with 
their  narrow  bigotry." 

"  Hast  thou  no  heart?  "  she  cried.  "  Canst  thou 
look  upon  my  wretchedness  and  thus  mock  me?" 

"  Once  you  made  my  happiness,"  he  answered 
passionately.  "Can  I  forget  so  soon?  I  was  as 
capable  of  loving  you  as  the  stern,  dark-browed 
man  you  have  chosen ;  yes,  and  a  millionfold  more, 
for  I  loved  you  in  spite  of  all.  He  loves  you  as  the 
one  perfect  woman  he  has  chosen,  the  flawless  ob 
ject  he  has  built  his  hopes  upon ;  I  loved  you  with 
your  faults." 

"  Hush,  hush!"  she  said.  "  Thou  shalt  not  speak 
to  me  thus;  I  must  not  hear  thy  words." 

"  You  shall  hear  them,"  he  answered  fiercely. 
"  Then,  if  you  possess  the  courage,  seek  your  hus 
band  and  tell  him  all." 

"Wilt  thou  not  leave  me,"  she  pleaded,  "ere  I 
fall  at  thy  feet?  This  trouble  has  made  me  weak. 
Have  mercy!" 

"  I  will  go ;  yet  remember,  I  leave  not  Salem.  In 
the  dark  watches  of  the  night,  when  no  sleep  comes, 
listen :  you  will  hear  my  steps  without  your  door. 


224  DOROTHY   THE    PURITAN. 

I  shall  not  leave  you,  Dorothy ;  there  is  a  bond  be 
tween  us,  a  bond  so  strong  that  no  power  can  break 
it,  save  the  courage  which  shall  unseal  your  lips." 

"  Or  death,"  she  said  solemnly. 

"  I  ween  that  e'en  when  death  comes,  no  strength 
would  cause  you  to  tell  your  husband.  Tell  me," 
he  continued  curiously,  "  what  causes  this  morbid 
fear  of  him?  " 

"Shall  I  tell  thee,  Sir  Grenville?"  She  drew 
closer  to  him,  speaking  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "  It  is 
because  I  fear  to  lose  him  ;  it  is  because  I  love  him : 
in  this  lies  both  my  happiness  and  my  misery. 
Thou  by  thy  deceit  hast  proved  to  me  the  cruelty 
of  one  man,  and  hast  also  opened  mine  eyes  to  the 
honor  and  goodness  of  another,  and  so  I  have  turned 
to  him  forever."  A  little  sigh  escaped  her  at  these 
words ;  she  held  out  both  hands  beseechingly. 
"  Thou  saidst  once  thou  didst  have  affection  for 
me ;  for  its  sake  leave  me  in  peace ;  I  ask  no  more 
of  thee." 

An  incredulous  expression  passed  over  her  com 
panion's  face  ;  he  turned  abruptly  from  her.  "  Your 
words  belie  the  substance  of  your  speech,"  he  said. 
"  If  it  were  love  of  him,  you  would  not  fear.  Does 
not  the  Good  Book  say,  '  Perfect  love  casteth  out 


THE    MARRIAGE.  225 

fear'  ?"  He  spoke  no  further,  but  left  her  abruptly. 
As  he  reached  the  summit  of  the  hill  he  met  old 
Martha  coming  laboriously  up  the  steep  ascent  to 
visit  her  niece. 

Martha  turned  in  the  road  and  looked  disapprov 
ingly  after  the  gayly  attired  worldling.  "  Foolish 
bedizened  follower  of  this  earth  and  its  vanities," 
she  muttered,  "  what  canst  thou  seek  in  this  quiet 
spot?" 

As  if  by  some  mysterious  means  he  interpreted 
her  thoughts,  and  turned  in  the  narrow  foot-path, 
removing  his  hat  and  bowing  deferentially.  "  Good- 
morning  to  you,  worthy  dame,"  he  said. 

Martha  vouchsafed  no  reply ;  holding  her  head 
stiffly,  she  passed  on,  but  heard  his  laugh  following 
her  as  she  did  so,  echoing  until  it  died  in  the  dis 
tance  with  a  gay,  rollicking  sound. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

» 

THE    PASSING   FOOTSTEPS. 

WHEN  Wentworth  returned  to  his  home  at  even 
ing,  grief  and  disappointment  were  apparent  in  his 
manner.  "  I  have  availed  nothing,"  he  said.  "  Mr. 
Parris  is  deeply  impressed  with  the  necessity  of 
dealing  summarily  with  this  most  appalling  situa 
tion.  Doubtless  in  much  he  is  correct,  yet  I  fear 
me  in  this  case  he  makes  a  grave  mistake." 

Dorothy  listened  in  silence.  "  Have  they  ar 
rested  this  good  woman?"  finally  she  said. 

"  To-night  they  make  the  arrest.  The  afflicted 
children  do  affirm  that  she  hath  hurt  them  several 
times.  They  say  she  hath  been  in  the  forest  at 
that  terrible  meeting  which  takes  place  at  midnight 
between  the  imps  of  Satan  and  the  witches,  when 
they  do  dance  together  on  the  greensward." 

Dorothy  listened  attentively,  leaning  forward  in 
her  chair. 

"  I  argued  and  plead  with  the  ministers  and 
226 


THE    PASSING   FOOTSTEPS.  227 

magistrates  that  they  investigate  further  into  the 
matter,  but  all  to  no  purpose." 

Dorothy  left  her  seat,  and  coming  slowly  toward 
her  husband  looked  closely  into  his  face,  then 
placed  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

He  noticed,  with  misgivings  at  his  heart,  how 
weak  and  faltering  were  her  steps,  how  her  breath 
came  in  short  gasps,  and  how  thin  and  pale  her 
sweet  face  was  growing.  "  I  am  fearful  for  thee, 
dearest,"  he  said  tenderly,  drawing  her  closely 
toward  him ;  "  each  day  thou  growest  more  frail. 
Am  I  absent  too  much?  Perchance  thou  art  lonely 
all  day  alone.  This  most  wretched  business  has 
absorbed  my  time.  Truly,  our  people  are  bereft  of 
all  peace  of  mind;  Satan  is  busy  amongst  us." 

"  Alden,"  she  said  solemnly,  "  I  think  not  on  my 
bodily  condition ;  it  is  my  mind  that  is  diseased, 
and  through  that  ailment  my  body  suffers."  She 
glanced  wistfully  into  his  clouded  face. 

"My  own,"  he  said,  "what  troubles  thee?  Tell 
me ;  perchance  I  can  help  thee.  Am  I  not  thy 
husband  and  thy  best  friend?  Is  it  thine  house 
hold  cares  that  are  too  great  for  thee?" 

She  clung  to  him  convulsively,  dry  sobs  shaking 
her  slender  form  as  the  wind  shakes  the  reeds  in 


228  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

the  meadows.  She  essayed  to  speak,  but  no  sound 
came  from  her  parched  lips. 

"Tell  me  not,"  he  said  soothingly,  "if  it  is  so 
hard  for  thee.  I  can  conjecture  it  is  of  thy  health. 
I  shall  send  for  Dr.  Griggs  to  see  thee  to-day. 
Fret  not,  it  is  not  serious.  This  witchcraft  trouble 
has  shaken  thy  nerves." 

"  No,  no,"  she  said  excitedly,  drawing  away  from 
his  clasp,  "  I  will  see  no  doctor;  they  can  do  noth 
ing  for  me."  Then,  lowering  her  voice,  she  con 
tinued,  as  if  speaking  to  herself,  "  Perhaps  God  will 
take  me  to  Himself.  He  knows  all,  and  He  has 
promised  forgiveness." 

"  Tell  me,  Dorothy,  what  is  it  that  troubles 
thee?  "  She  had  placed  her  hands  before  her  face  ; 
he  drew  them  down  and  held  them  forcibly  in  his 
strong  clasp.  "  It  is  my  right.  What  is  this  se 
cret?  Surely  thou  canst  trust  me." 

A  convulsive  tremor  passed  over  her;  her  head 
drooped.  "Thou  art  right,"  she  said  finally,  "it  is 
— it  is — my  health  ;  I  fear — I  fear  to  leave  thee," 
she  faltered.  Another  strand  in  the  web  was  tight 
ened  ;  the  poor  victim's  struggles  became  weaker. 

"  It  is,  then,  as  I  conjectured ;  the  doctor  will 
give  thee  some  soothing  draught.  All  will  be  right 


THE   PASSING   FOOTSTEPS.  229 

again ;   if  not,  we  will  go  to  Boston  for  change.     I 
will  endeavor  to  procure  time." 

"  No,  no,"  she  said  vehemently.     "  I  care  not  to 

? 

go  to  Boston." 

He  was  puzzled  at  her  incomprehensible  behav 
ior,  but  attributed  it  to  her  weakened  condition. 

That  night,  when  all  was  still,  Dorothy  heard  the 
steps  outside  her  window  upon  the  garden  path. 
Her  husband  was  asleep ;  she  distinguished  his  reg 
ular  breathing  as  it  rose  and  fell  upon  the  quiet  of 
the  room.  She  leaned  over  him  ;  a  gleam  reflected 
from  the  patch  of  moonlight  upon  the  floor  fell 
across  his  face.  She  waited  an  instant,  watching 
him,  then  rose  cautiously,  and  going  to  the  window 
looked  out  through  the  narrow  panes  of  the  case 
ment.  She  heard  the  echoing  steps,  but  saw  no 
one. 

Suddenly  a  tall  figure  emerged  from  beneath  a 
drooping  willow.  It  was  Grenville.  He  was  look 
ing  toward  her  window ;  the  moonbeams  fell  across 
his  face,  bringing  his  features  into  clear  relief. 

"  Father  in  heaven,"  she  murmured,  "  he  has  no 
pity!"  She  fell  upon  her  knees  by  the  window. 
"  Have  mercy,  O  Heavenly  One,  have  mercy ! " 
She  clasped  her  hands  and  bowed  her  head  above 


230  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

them.  Then,  as- if  impelled  by  some  gigantic  force, 
she  trembled  as  one  in  mortal  terror,  rose  from  her 
kneeling  position,  dressed  hastily,  and  noiselessly 
descended  the  stairs  and  went  out  into  the  quiet 
garden.  The  watching  figure  came  forward  and 
joined  her. 

"Away  from  me!"  she  said  fiercely.  "Away, 
come  not  nigh  me !  I  can  live  my  life  no  longer ; 
I  go  to  make  restitution." 

Grenville  started  back,  appalled.  Was  she  seek 
ing  self-destruction,  or  was  she  demented?  He  did 
not  speak,  awed  into  silence. 

She  passed  him  swiftly,  her  light  step  making  no 
sound.  She  fled  through  the  garden  gate,  thence 
down  the  country  road,  which  was  brilliantly  illu 
minated  by  the  white  light  of  the  full  moon.  Sir 
Grenville  followed  warily,  keeping  her  form  in  sight. 
She  never  paused,  but  straight  as  the  bird  flies, 
made  her  way  to  the  garden  that  lay  back  of  the 
Holden  farm,  the  dear  old  garden  that  she  had 
tended  so  faithfully  in  the  happy  days  now  past — 
happy,  though  she  had  suspected  it  not.  She  has 
tened  to  the  flowering  shrub  that  grew  in  the  se 
cluded  corner,  and  there  she  paused.  That  she  was 
demented,  Sir  Grenville  did  not  doubt. 


THE    PASSING   FOOTSTEPS.  231 

He  remained  motionless,  watching  her  closely. 
She  seized  a  stick,  and  with  its  assistance  and  that 
of  her  hands  commenced  to  dig  rapidly  in  the  earth. 
Presently  she  drew  forth  a  small  box  from  the 
ground,  the  odor  of  the  damp  clay  rising  upon  the 
atmosphere  as  she  did  so.  She  was  speaking  to 
herself,  but  Grenville  stood  at  too  great  distance  to 
distinguish  the  words.  She  brushed  the  clinging 
dirt  from  the  box  and  turned  to  retrace  her  steps. 

By  slow  degrees  Sir  Grenville  reached  the  con 
clusion  that,  after  all,  there  might  possibly  be  a  mo 
tive  in  this  midnight  journey,  and  that  his  reasoning 
had  been  at  fault  in  considering  her  mind  diseased. 

When  she  reached  the  road  he  joined  her,  and 
grasped  her  arm.  "What  is  the  meaning  of  this?" 
he  demanded,  drawing  her  away  from  the  bright 
highway  to  the  shade  of  some  vines  that  climbed 
over  a  blighted  tree  near  the  wayside. 

"  Hast  thou  followed  me?"  she  said  desperately. 
"  Can  I  never  escape  thee?  " 

"  In  one  way,  and  one  only." 

"Then  I  have  found  the  way,"  she  cried  triumph 
antly.  "  It  is  here,  in  this  box ;  it  contains  my  death- 
warrant,  yet  it  frees  me  from  thee." 

"What  does  that  box  contain?"  he  said. 


232  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

"  My  confession,  which  my  husband  shall  see 
when  the  morning  dawns.  Alas !  for  me  there  shall 
dawn  no  morning,  only  a  long,  long  night." 

"  Hast  thou  the  courage?"  he  said  softly. 

"Why  ask  me  that  question?  Have  the  poor 
wretches  the  courage  to  give  up  their  lives  on  the 
hill  yonder?  It  is  their  fate;  this  is  mine,  and 
thou  canst  take  this  thought  to  thyself,  that  thou 
hast  made  me  what  I  am." 

"No,  no,  Dorothy,  no,  no,"  he  said;  "say  not 
that." 

"  I  shall  say  it ;  it  is  the  truth.  Was  I  not  an 
innocent  child  when  I  first  met  thee?  What  am  I 
now?  A  terrified,  cowed  creature,  with  no  will,  no 
balance,  starting  at  every  sound,  the  prey  of  mine 
accusing  conscience,  living  a  life  of  deceit,  striving 
to  win  my  happiness  with  a  lie." 

He  drew  nearer  to  her.  His  face  was  in  shadow  ; 
she  could  not  distinguish  the  expression  of  his  feat 
ures.  The  clouds  were  drifting  across  the  moon, 
and  a  dull,  somber  glow  had  spread  itself  upon  the 
fields  and  distant  hills.  No  sound,  save  the  far-off 
booming  of  the  waves,  broke  the  tense  stillness. 
"  There  is  a  way  out  of  all  this  misery,"  he  said. 
"Shall  I  not  speak  it?" 


THE   PASSING   FOOTSTEPS.  233 

"  There  is  none,"  she  murmured  brokenly.  "  Oft 
have  I  thought,  yet  ever  have  I  returned  to  the 
starting-point." 

"  There  is  a  way,"  he  said  quickly.  "  Come  with 
me ;  leave  this  hated  spot,  where  all  is  fraught  with 
direst  danger.  Not  alone  from  the  wrath  of  your 
husband,  not  alone  from  my  passing  steps  at  mid 
night,  yet  still  another  source — from  the  rage  of 
one  who  hates  you,  who  seeks  to  harm  you — yes, 
worse  than  harm — who  seeks  your  life,  who  holds  it 
even  now  within  her  bloodthirsty  hand."  He  had 
spoken  loudly ;  he  paused,  his  chest  heaving  with 
the  force  of  his  words. 

She  recoiled  from  him.  "And  thou,  thou,"  she 
cried,  "  who  once  professed  a  true,  deep  love  for 
me,  now  seekst  my  destruction."  She  rushed  by 
him  to  the  center  of  the  road,  where  she  stopped 
irresolute,  swaying  backward  and  forward. 

He  did  not  follow  her;  he  had  expected  no  dif 
ferent  result  from  his  speech.  He  had  given  her 
food  for  thought,  however.  That  was  sufficient  for 
the  present. 

She  started  abruptly,  not  once  looking  backward, 
flying  swiftly  onward.  When  she  reached  the  little 
graveyard  on  the  hill  near  the  meeting-house  she 


234  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN.  • 

paused,  and  gazed  over  the  wooden  paling  upon 
the  quiet  spot.  "  How  calm  is  their  rest!"  she  said 
aloud.  "  Would  that  I  were  sleeping  with  them. 
Had  they  ever  sorrows  such  as  mine?  Do  they  lie 
there  so  still,  with  secrets  hidden  in  their  hearts? 
I  ween  not,  else  they  would  not  sleep  so  peace 
fully."  She  rested  for  a  few  minutes  longer,  her 
thoughts  filled  with  a  vague  dreaminess. 

The  realities  of  her  position  departed  from  her. 
In  truth  she  saw  before  her  but  the  last  earthly 
homes  of  the  dead — humble,  narrow  homes ;  but  in 
a  vision  she  caught  glimpses  of  the  beautiful  possi 
bilities  of  a  life  eternal,  reaching  far  above  and  be 
yond  those  lowly  graves,  where  all  would  be  made 
right,  and  an  everlasting  peace  would  fill  her  im 
mortal  soul.  She  was  startled  from  her  reverie  by 
a  clear,  deep  voice  at  her  side,  a  voice  she  remem 
bered  only  too  well.  She  turned  quickly,  to  behold 
Elizabeth  standing  near  her. 

"  So  thou  hast  been  on  thy  midnight  ride," 
scoffed  Elizabeth,  "  to  the  forest.  Do  thy  imps 
dance  gayly  on  such  a  moonlight  night  as  this  ?  I 
ween  thou  hast  been  busy,  Mistress  Dorothy." 

"  Thou  art  crazed,  Elizabeth.  What  know  I  of 
imps  and  midnight  rides?  I  might  as  well  accuse 


THE    PASSING    FOOTSTEPS.  235 

thee  of  such  uncanny  practices.  Wherefore  art 
thou  abroad  this  hour?  " 

"  I  am  about  my  business.  I  saw  thee  alight 
from  thy  charger  even  at  this  churchyard,  and 
when  thou  didst  alight  the  moon  hid  her  face.  I 
heard  thee  mutter  in  strange  words." 

"  Go  thy  way,"  cried  Dorothy  angrily.  "  I  am 
no  more  a  witch  than  thou  art.  Thou  wilt  find  it 
no  small  matter  to  accuse  the  wife  of  Judge  Went- 
worth.  Dorothy  Grey  would  no  doubt  have  fallen 
an  easier  victim.  I  am  not  afraid  of  thee,  I  scorn 
thee." 

At  this  Elizabeth  drew  nearer,  shaking  her  finger 
menacingly,  and  trembling  with  anger.  "  Thou 
shalt  see  who  has  the  greatest  influence  in  Salem,  I 
or  Judge  Wentworth.  It  were  better  for  thee  to 
bridle  thy  speech." 

"  I  defy  a  girl  who  has  no  more  heart  than  thou 
hast.  I  can  see  through  thy  efforts :  thou  wouldst 
be  in  my  place.  I  defy  thee,  I  say." 

Elizabeth  bent  above  the  defiant  girl  in  the  atti 
tude  of  an  eagle  about  to  swoop  upon  its  prey, 
then,  drawing  away  from  her  a  few  paces,  she 
spoke  in  tones  of  concentrated  passion.  "  I  hate 
thee,  and  thou  shalt  repent  thy  words.  Thou  art 


236  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

a  witch.  Even  now  the  black  man  is  by  thy  side ; 
thy  imps  are  dancing  among  the  graves — they  are 
near  thee  to  do  thy  bidding." 

Dorothy  laughed  hysterically.  "  Cease  thy  fool 
ish  raving!  I  fear  thee  not.  My  husband  is  all- 
powerful  against  thee.  So  long  as  I  hold  his  love 
and  trust  I  am  safe."  Her  last  words  suddenly  re 
called  her  to  a  realization  of  the  horror  of  her  posi 
tion.  "  His  love  and  trust ! "  Like  a  bolt  from  a 
clear  sky  these  words  struck  home.  She  cowered 
before  the  wrath  of  this  merciless  fiend.  "  Well," 
she  said  helplessly,  "  if  thou  dost  accuse  me,  what 
of  it  ?  I  shall  then  be  at  peace  in  a  land  whither 
thou  canst  not  follow  to  torment  me." 

This  strange  answer  nonplused  Elizabeth.  She 
did  not  reply  immediately ;  then,  as  though  strug 
gling  to  assert  again  the  baleful  influence  she  saw 
was  bewildering  Dorothy,  she  clutched  her  arm  and 
said,  "  What  hast  thou  in  that  box  thou  claspest 
in  thy  hand?  I  wot  it  contains  love  philters  and 
charms — perchance  some  noisome  herbs  and  drugs 
that  do  assist  thee  in  thy  evil  work." 

"  No,  Elizabeth,  no,"  she  answered  sadly. 
"  Would  that  it  did  contain  some  spell  to  dull  my 
conscience,  or  to  blind  the  eyes  of  one  that  believes 


THE    PASSING   FOOTSTEPS.  237 

in  me.  Alas!  it  is  not  so.  What  it  holds  is  my 
secret,  and  one  other's." 

"  I  shall  not  force  it  from  thee,  fear  not.  I  wish 
no  acquaintance  with  the  secrets  of  thy  wicked 
craft." 

"  It  would  avail  thee  little.  Yet  see,"  she  pointed, 
as  she  spoke,  toward  the  east,  "  it  is  the  dawn ;  the 
morning  will  soon  be  here.  1  must  away."  She 
turned  and  glanced  timidly  into  the  malicious  face 
regarding  her.  "  Thou  wilt  not  harm  me,  thou  wilt 
not,  for  the  sake  of  our  girlhood's  friendship." 

"  I  am  no  friend  of  thine.  I  shall  do  the  work  I 
have  set  my  hands  to  do.  I  have  a  mission — I 
shall  fulfill  it."  The  tones  were  cold  and  calm. 

Dorothy  turned  from  her  and  wrung  her  hands. 
"Then  I  leave  thee;  I  can  ask  no  more."  She 
sped  hastily  up  the  street  in  the  direction  df  her 
home. 

After  Elizabeth  was  left  alone,  she  hesitated 
some  minutes  before  leaving  the  lonely  spot.  She 
appeared  to  be  thinking  deeply.  She  rested  upon 
the  wooden  paling  and  looked  gloomily  over  the 
graveyard.  Then  she  descended  the  hill,  going  to 
ward  the  north  of  the  village.  As  she  passed  the 
clump  of  vines  beneath  which  Dorothy  and  Sir 


238  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

Grenville  had  been  conversing  she  thought  she 
heard  a  rustling  of  the  foliage.  She  was  not  mis 
taken  ;  her  sharp  eyes  soon  discovered  a  stalwart 
figure  coming  cautiously  forward,  though  endeavor 
ing  to  keep  as  near  as  possible  to  the  shelter  of  the 
hedge.  She  recognized  him,  however,  as  the  Eng 
lish  lord  now  domiciled  at  the  inn  in  the  village. 
She  did  not  address  him,  but  passed  on. 

When  Dorothy,  frightened,  distracted,  hounded, 
reached  the  shelter  of  her  room,  she  found  all  as 
she  had  left  it.  Her  husband  was  sleeping  quietly ; 
her  absence  had  not  been  discovered.  She  seated 
herself  on  the  chair  by  the  bedside,  the  box  upon 
her  lap.  She  was  not  terrified,  only  baffled,  at  this 
new  link  in  the  chain.  Even  if  she  were  to  be  ar 
rested,  which  in  her  position  as  the  wife  of  the  pop 
ular  judge  she  very  much  doubted,  her  suffering 
could  not  be  greater  than  that  she  now  endured. 
The  power  of  her  grief  did  not  lie  in  this  reflection ; 
ah,  no,  but  in  the  knowledge  that  her  life  was  as  a 
deep  pool  of  deceit,  from  which  there  was  but  one 
means  of  extricating  herself,  and  that  means  she 
had  not  the  courage  to  use. 

She  leaned  over  her  husband,  looking  tenderly 
down  upon  him,  then  kissed  him  gently.  He 


THE    PASSING   FOOTSTEPS.  239 

stirred  in  his  sleep  but  did  not  awake.  "  If  he 
knew,  if  he  knew!"  she  murmured.  "Ah,  that  I 
had  told  him  that  day  when  he  found  me  weeping 
at  my  spinning-wheel !  He  might  have  forgiven 
me  then;  now — now — it  is  too  late." 

The  faint  glow  of  the  early  morning  stole  in 
through  the  lattice ;  the  birds  began  to  twitter 
faintly  in  the  trees  near  the  house ;  the  distant 
sound  of  the  cattle  lowing  echoed  across  the  village 
street ;  a  faint  pink  tinge  crept  furtively  around  the 
room,  chasing  the  gray  light  before  it.  The  articles 
of  furniture  became  more  clearly  outlined,  then  the 
pink  glow  deepened  into  red  and  stole  over  the 
sleeping  man  and  the  watching  woman. 

Dorothy  knew  that  the  sun  had  risen,  and  the 
task  she  had  set  herself  must  be  performed  before 
another  hour  had  passed.  She  clenched  her  small 
hands  tightly.  "Then  I  can  go  home,"  she  mur 
mured.  "  Perhaps  Aunt  Martha  will  take  me  in. 
It  will  only  be  for  a  little  while ;  I  shall  not  trouble 
any  one  very  long." 

Suddenly  she  started ;  her  husband  was  speaking 
in  his  sleep.  She  listened  intently,  placing  her  ear 
close  to  his  face.  A  spasm  of  agony  crossed  her 
features  as  she  heard  and  understood  his  words. 


240  DOROTHY   THE    PURITAN. 

"Dorothy,"  he  said,  "Dorothy,  my  own!"  He 
was  dreaming  of  her. 

Such  inexpressible  affection  was  in  his  voice  that 
she  rose  to  her  feet  as  if  struck.  "  God  help  me,  I 
cannot  tell  him,  I  cannot."  A  dimness  came  over 
her  sight;  she  shook  as  with  a  chill,  though  the 
summer  morning  was  warm.  She  advanced  to  the 
window  and  looked  over  the  fields  toward  the  sea. 
Then  going  softly  up  the  garret  stairs,  she  placed 
the  confession  in  an  oaken  chest  that  contained 
some  old-time  treasures.  She  leaned  her  head 
upon  the  chest  after  securely  locking  it,  and  burst 
into  passionate  tears. 

This  in  her  overwrought  condition  was  well,  for 
it  relieved  the  terrible  mental  strain  under  which 
she  had  been  laboring.  She  then  arose,  and 
walked  to  the  small  garret  window  set  in  the 
gambrel  roof,  and  gazed  out  upon  the  spreading 
landscape  growing  gradually  from  out  the  misti 
ness  of  night  to  the  full  glory  of  a  brilliant  morn 
ing.  She  was  scarce  appreciative  of  the  beauties 
of  nature  encompassed  in  the  fair  rural  scene  before 
her. 

A  dread  apprehension  had  taken  possession  of 
her:  the  fear  that  some  unknown  agency  outside 


THE    PASSING   FOOTSTEPS.  241 

her  will  had  for  its  wretched  mission  the  subjuga 
tion  of  her  powers.  Though  she  could  see  and  rea 
son  aright,  nevermore,  she  believed,  would  she  pos 
sess  the  courage  to  reveal  the  misery  within  her. 
Perhaps  a  witch  now  lying  in  her  cell  condemned  to 
die  was  dealing  her  this  deadly  harm,  sending  her 
agents  forth  on  this  diabolical  mission,  or  else  tor 
turing  the  puppet  she  had  fashioned  in  the  shape  of 
her  victim.  This  was  a  not  unusual  conclusion  for 
Dorothy  to  have  reached,  considering  that  witch 
craft  was  deemed  responsible  for  nearly  all  the  ills 
that  afflicted  mankind. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

THE    MEETING    OF   THE    MINISTERS. 

THE  colony  of  Salem  had  reached  a  pitch  of 
extreme  terror  and  excitement ;  the  people  were 
floundering  in  a  tempestuous  sea  of  doubt  and 
apprehension.  That  the  dreaded  circle  might  pos 
sibly  be  dissembling  apparently  never  occurred  to 
the  deluded  populace,  and  the  girls  were  allowed  to 
proceed  upon  their  own  wicked  way.  •  They  were 
supposed  to  be  under  supernatural  guidance  and 
fulfilling  their  ordained  mission  ;  consequently  they 
were  objects  of  awe  and  respect.  This  attention 
naturally  caused  them  to  become  bold  and  unscru 
pulous.  From  accusing  individuals  in  lowly  posi 
tions  and  but  little  considered  in  the  community, 
they  now  aimed  their  deadly  shafts  at  saintly  per 
sons  of  high  standing. 

Mr.  Parris  had  from  the  beginning  of  the  trouble 
been  most  vehement  in  his  denunciation  of  the 
witches.  He  had  helped  to  fan  the  devastating 

242 


THE    MEETING   OF    THE    MINISTERS.          243 

flames  that  were  raging  fiercely  over  the  quiet  re 
pose  of  this  little  New  World  hamlet. 

A  secret  session  was  called  one  afternoon,  in  the 
study  at  the  manse.  Mr.  Parris  presided,  and  many 
learned  men  were  present.  Mr.  Wentworth  was 
absent;  in  fact,  he  had  not  been  apprised  of  the 
meeting.  The  stern-visaged  men  sat  in  solemn 
rows  around  a  long  table  in  the  center  of  the  apart 
ment.  Upon  the  table  were  heaped  many  books 
and  documents. 

Elizabeth  Hubbard,  erect,  watchful,  her  great 
eyes,  like  coals  of  fire,  roving  restlessly  over  the 
faces  before  her,  stood  at  one  end  of  the  table,  one 
hand  upon  a  book,  the  other  resting  upon  the  back 
of  a  chair.  The  grave  countenances  of  the  men 
were  turned  respectfully  upon  her  as  they  listened 
with  the  closest  attention  to  the  fantastic  utterances 
that  fell  from  her  lips. 

"  Now  sayest  thou  truly,  Elizabeth  ?  Can  it  be  pos 
sible  that  such  dread  news  must  be  heralded  by  thee  ?" 

It  was  Mr.  Parris  who  spoke,  his  voice  low  and 
repressed.  He  turned  to  the  assemblage.  "  Hast 
listened  well  to  these  awful  disclosures?" 

All  were  silent ;  their  faces  were  troubled ;  they 
shook  their  heads  solemnly. 


244  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

"  Tell  us  what  else  thou  wast  compelled  to  wit 
ness;  conceal  naught  for  the  sake  of  any  affection 
or  humanity.  It  is  thy  duty;  proceed." 

"  When  I  did  look  upon  her,  she  did  cower  as 
though  seized  with  a  great  fear.  She  held  in  her 
hand  a  box ;  I  smelt  the  damp  odor  of  clay  issue 
from  it.  Doubtless  she  had  dug  it  with  the  aid 
of  her  attendants,  who  accompanied  her  from  the 
graves  in  the  churchyard.  I  did  accuse  her  to  her 
face.  I  was  strong  with  righteousness,  I  had  no 
fear.  She  flaunted  me,  saying  she  was  safe,  no 
harm  could  reach  one  in  her  position." 

"What  else,  what  else?"  said  the  frightened 
company,  drawing  nearer  to  each  other  and  listen 
ing  with  bated  breath  and  credulous  countenances. 

"  When  she  did  speak  thus  I  heard  laughs  come 
from  the  hollows  in  the  graves,  and  strange  forms 
rose  into  the  air  and  circled  about  my  head.  She 
then  did  bid  me  do  my  worst,  and  vanished  from 
my  sight,  whether  up  into  the  air  or  down  into  the 
earth  I  know  not,  but  the  place  where  she  was  stand 
ing  became  vacant.  Then  I  heard  the  fluttering  of 
wings,  lights  danced  upon  the  grass,  and  a  great  cry 
came  out  of  the  forest  toward  the  north." 

"Horrible,  horrible!"  said  the  company.     They 


THE    MEETING   OF   THE    MINISTERS.          245 

looked  askance  over  their  shoulders,  then  shuddered 
as  they  placed  their  heads  closer  together. 

"  Surely  she  has  signed  a  bond  with  the  powers 
of  darkness,"  said  Mr.  Parris  in  a  deep  voice. 

"Yet  let  us  investigate  further  into  this  matter," 
said  one.  "  What  wast  thou  doing  at  that  hour 
upon  the  highway?" 

"  I  sleep  but  little,"  said  Elizabeth,  eying  her  in 
terlocutor  malevolently.  "  I  seek  ever  for  proof  to 
cleanse  the  earth  of  this  dread  scourge.  Behold,  I 
have  been  successful :  Dorothy  Wentworth  is  of  a 
surety  the  greatest  witch  amongst  us." 

"She  is,"  cried  Mr.  Parris  with  decision,  "she  is. 
She  shall  be  dealt  with  as  have  been  all  the  rest. 
No  youth  or  beauty  or  position  shall  avail  her  now. 
Verily  Satan  hath  chosen  a  fine  instrument  for  his 
designs." 

"  Softly,  softly,"  said  the  voice  of  the  cautious 
one ;  "  be  not  rash.  Alden  Wentworth  is  a  power 
in  the  village." 

"  He  possesses  no  power  great  enough  to  shield 
one  who  is  accused,"  answered  Mr.  Parris,  "  and  who 
is  doubtless  guilty." 

"  Let  me  warn  Wentworth.  Spring  not  this  ap 
palling  revelation  upon  him." 


246  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

"  Not  so ;  he  will  aid  her  to  escape.  I  shall  pro 
cure  more  testimony,  then  in  a  few  days  I  shall  issue 
the  warrant  for  her  arrest."  It  was  the  voice  of  the 
presiding  judge  who  spoke.  No  one  gainsaid  the 
wisdom  of  his  decision.  So  the  meeting  dispersed 
in  silence  and  gloom,  the  worthy  judges  remaining 
huddled  together  for  some  time  longer  in  the  study. 

They  examined  carefully  the  different  phases  of 
this  most  serious  case,  and  twisted  it  this  way  and 
that  way,  always  arriving  at  the  same  conclusion. 
She  was  a  witch ;  for  the  good  of  mankind  she  must 
be  immediately  dealt  with  and  punished. 

"  Know  you  not,"  cried  Mr.  Parris,  "  that  ye  do 
expose  your  families  to  a  fearful  risk  in  allowing 
these  fiends  to  live  ?  The  extent  of  their  power  for 
evil  is  limitless." 

Elizabeth  went  her  way  with  triumph  depicted 
upon  her  sinister  countenance.  After  leaving  the 
manse,  she  wandered  toward  the  seashore,  where 
she  often  sat  for  hours  brooding  gloomily.  It  had 
been  her  daily  habit  for  months ;  none  questioned 
it.  Had  she  not  been  set  apart  for  a  sacred  work  ? 
Her  eccentricities  were  but  accounted  outward  em 
blems  of  her  incomprehensible  spiritual  powers. 

She  remained  long  brooding  in  the  shadow  of  a 


THE    MEETING    OF   THE    MINISTERS.          247 

great  bowlder  that  shielded  her  from  the  curious 
gaze  of  any  chance  passer-by.  Looking  back  upon 
the  terrible  fatalities  committed  by  these  misguided 
girls,  it  were  no  doubt  charitable  to  consider  them 
demented,  or  as  being  themselves  deluded.  Yet  in 
many  of  their  accusations  there  appears  to  have 
been  a  perfectly  conducted  plan,  as  if  they  worked 
from  well-defined  motives.  At  any  rate,  they  suc 
ceeded  in  deceiving  the  wisest  minds  of  the  times. 

After  some  minutes  of  thoughtfulness,  Elizabeth 
laid  her  head  back  against  a  clump  of  seaweeds  that 
had  collected  in  a  nook  near  her,  and  fell  asleep. 
She  was  awakened  by  the  sound  of  voices — harsh 
men's  voices.  They  were  evidently  disputing.  She 
did  not  speak  or  move,  but  remained  listening  in 
tently. 

"  You  kept  back  half  the  gold  that  rightfully  was 
mine  ;  were  it  not  for  the  wholesome  dread  I  have  of 
Sir  Grenville,  I  would  make  him  pay  well  for  the 
silence  we  keep." 

The  other  voice  responded  by  a  coarse  laugh. 
"  I  ween  the  pretty  little  Puritan  was  a  schemer, 
after  all.  To  think  that  she  should  hoodwink  our 
master,  and  then  catch  the  worthy  young  judge! 
Gad,  she  is  a  smart  one!" 


248  DOROTHY   THE    PURITAN. 

"  Didst  see  her  face  well  the  night  she  played  the 
sorry  trick  upon  him?"  asked  the  first  speaker. 

"  Ay,  well,  in  the  light  of  the  lantern  they  carried 
on  the  pommel  of  the  saddle ;  she  had  the  sweetest 
face  I  ever  saw.  When  I  beheld  her  yestereve  on 
the  village  street,  her  hand  on  the  arm  of  the  stiff- 
necked  Puritan  she  married,  I  was  well-nigh  shocked, 
she  looked  so  pale  and  wan." 

Elizabeth  lifted  her  head,  a  lurid  glow  over 
spreading  her  features,  the  light  of  a  new  thought 
creeping  into  her  somber  eyes.  A  full  comprehen 
sion  of  the  conversation  she  was  listening  to  gradu 
ally  forced  itself  upon  her.  She  eagerly  gathered 
together,  link  by  link,  Dorothy's  failing  health,  her 
strange  words  the  night  they  met  by  the  graveyard, 
Sir  Grenville  skulking  by  the  wayside  under  the 
shelter  of  the  vines. 

For  some  moments  the  voices  remained  silent, 
then  one  spoke  defiantly :  "  I  do  not  fear  Sir  Gren 
ville.  I  shall  go  to  him  and  buy  my  silence.  It  is 
worth  something  to  him ;  if  he  fails  me,  I  shall  seek 
the  gentle,  saintly  Mistress  Wentworth.  I  wot  she 
never  told  of  her  elopement  escapade :  she  would 
be  hounded  from  the  place.  These  saints  of  the 
earth,  as  they  do  consider  themselves,  have  no  toler 
ance  for  a  foolish  deed." 


THE    MEETING   OF   THE    MINISTERS.          249 

"  That  would  be  cruel,  mate,"  said  the  other,  who 
was  evidently  made  of  more  gentle  fiber  than  his 
companion.  "  Try  the  master ;  if  he  fails,  give  it 
up.  Say,  now,  do  you  presume  he  caught  the  pretty 
bird  in  the  woods  that  night  nigh  Boston  town,  or 
did  she  escape  him?" 

"  She  escaped  him :  can  you  not  remember  his 
rage  and  his  curses?  I  cannot  say  what  the  out 
come  of  it  all  was ;  I  know  he  lingered  near  the 
woods  for  days.  I  would  I  knew  why  she  left  him, 
what  he  told  her,  and  why  he  engaged  us  to  wait 
in  hiding,  bidding  us  gag  her  if  need  be,  should  she 
prove  rebellious.  What  became  of  her?  Did  she 
go  to  England  ?  And  if  so,  how  did  she  return  to 
Salem?" 

"  Let  us  give  up  the  riddle  and  go,  while  the  fire 
is  hot  within  us,  and  demand  hush-money  from  the 
gay  milord." 

"  Ay,  the  chance  is  worth  trying." 

As  the  two  men  arose  Elizabeth  stepped  out  from 
behind  the  rock  which  had  concealed  her  presence, 
and  stood  before  them. 

"  I  have  heard  whereof  ye  have  spoken,"  she  said 
calmly ;  "  it  is  of  great  moment  to  me.  Seek  not 
Sir  Grenville  Lawson,  rather  seek  me ;  I  will  pay 
thee  well  for  information  on  this  subject." 


250  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

"  Truly  we  are  poor,"  replied  one  of  the  men, 
"  and  would  have  pay.  You  must  know,  however, 
that  to  us  you  are  a  stranger;  we  can  run  no  risks." 

"  I  am  a  stranger:  what  of  that?"  She  stepped 
closer  to  them,  her  bold  glance  compelling  their  at 
tention.  "  Is  my  gold  not  as  capable  of  use  as  that 
English  lord's  ye  have  served?" 

"  Yes,  truly,  but  we  fear  him,  and  are  indebted  to 
him  greatly." 

"  Do  not  bandy  words  with  me,"  she  said  impa 
tiently  ;  "  name  your  price.  I  construe  thou  hast 
no  great  affection  for  thy  taskmaster;  leastways,  I 
judged  so  by  thy  words." 

"  You  speak  truth  there,"  they  said.  Then  final 
ly  the  bolder  of  the  two  spoke. 

"  If  you  can  procure  for  us  a  right  goodly  sum, 
you  shall  be  as  wise  to-morrow  as  we  are  to-day." 

"  I  shall  have  the  money ;  I  shall  be  here  to-mor 
row  at  this  time.  Remember,  fail  me  not." 

"  You  will  not  use  the  story  to  the  discredit  of 
sweet  Mistress  Wentworth?  If  so,  I  swear  I  will 
not  tell  it,"  said  the  more  gentle  of  the  two. 

"  Hold  your  prating,  fellow,"  cried  the  hardened 
one.  "  We  need  the  gold  ;  this  is  no  time  for  silly 
sentiment." 


THE    MEETING   OF   THE    MINISTERS.          251 

"  A  wise  and  cautious  sentence,"  interrupted 
Elizabeth  with  a  bitter  laugh.  "  This  is  no  case,  I 
tell  thee,  for  sentiment.  Nevertheless,  it  is  a  good 
thing  to  see  heart  in  one  where  it  is  so  unex 
pected." 

"She  was  so  fair  and  young  and  innocent,"  said 
the  fellow. 

"Thou  art  a  fool!"  cried  Elizabeth  angrily. 
"  When  one  is  young,  perchance  fair,  should  that 
cover  sin?  I  tell  thee,  when  one  is  old  and  ill- 
favored,  none  show  mercy.  I  show  mercy  to 
none." 

"  She  was  not  sinful,"  said  the  fellow  stubbornly. 
"  I  believe  no  ill  of  her." 

"  Silence!  Know  ye  who  I  am?"  They  started 
at  her  question.  "  I  am  Elizabeth  Hubbard  of  the 
accusing  circle." 

The  men  drew  hurriedly  apart  from  her,  almost 
tripping  each  other  in  their  haste.  "Ah,  I  have 
alarmed  ye !  Well,  calm  yourselves :  I  shall  do 
ye  no  harm ;  the  star  of  witchcraft  is  not  on  your 
foreheads,  your  wickedness  is  too  apparent."  She 
laughed  sarcastically,  then  turned  from  them,  glanc 
ing  sidewise  upon  them  as  she  retreated,  regarding 
them  sternly.  "  Fail  me  not ;  I  shall  be  here. 


252  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

Spare  no  details  of  the  story ;  I  shall  know  if  there 
be  a  falsehood  in  your  speech." 

On  the  following  day  Elizabeth  heard  the  ac 
count  of  the  disastrous  journey,  and  heard  it  cor 
rectly  save  in  one  particular — the  men  not  knowing 
of  a  certainty  whether  Dorothy  had  been  recapt 
ured  or  no. 

One  might  imagine  that  an  evil  genius  was  in 
waiting  upon  the  will  of  this  demented  creature,  so 
aptly  and  concisely  did  all  the  pieces  of  her  puzzle 
fit.  She  now  had  at  her  command  not  only  the 
means  to  drag  her  rival  from  her  high  position,  but 
also  to  debase  her  in  the  eyes  of  her  husband. 
This  latter  secret  she  gloated  over  .with  the  glee  of 
a  miser  gloating  over  his  treasures,  for  truly  it  was 
the  most  formidable  weapon  in  her  armory. 

The  reverend  Mr.  Parris  spared  neither  time  nor 
pains  in  procuring  witnesses  and  evidence  against 
Dorothy.  This  was  not  a  difficult  task  at  a  time 
when  the  slightest  individual  peculiarity  might  be 
distorted  into  deeds  of  witchcraft,  and  seized  upon 
eagerly  by  the  terrified  and  credulous  people.  Mr. 
Parris  was  a  man  of  narrow  instincts,  and  evidently 
considered  himself  working  in  the  light  of  godliness. 
That  he  was  intentionally  wicked  or  cruel,  history 


THE    MEETING   OF   THE    MINISTERS.          253 

does  not  assert ;  he  was  only  zealous  in  a  mistaken 
cause.  He  was  not  by  any  means  alone  in  his 
career  of  ferreting  out  the  witches ;  he  had  helpers 
among  his  brother  clergymen,  and  the  name  of  Cot 
ton  Mather  figures  conspicuously  in  the  narratives 
devoted  to  those  distressing  days. 

The  wretched  girls,  intoxicated  by  the  attentions 
conferred  upon  them  by  men  of  such  renown,  per 
formed  daily  their  ridiculous  pranks  for  their  edifi 
cation,  the  wise  sages  in  the  meanwhile  looking 
solemnly  on,  wagging  their  heads  and  saying,  "  Of  a 
certainty  these  poor  girls  are  bewitched  ;  it  behooves 
us  to  hang  the  witches." 

One  of  the  most  heinous  crimes  Dorothy  'had 
committed  was  her  persistency  in  remaining  absent 
from  the  meetings  on  the  Lord's  Day. 

Elizabeth  and  the  rest  of  her  companions  asserted 
that  she  dared  not  enter  the  church,  she  dared  not 
remain  in  the  presence  of  good  people ;  that  Satan 
had  claimed  her  for  his  own,  and  if  she  placed  her 
foot  upon  the  threshold  of  the  holy  spot  she  would 
emit  flames  of  fire  from  her  mouth. 

All  this  was  drunk  in  greedily,  with  shudderings 
at  the  horrible  condition  of  this  lost  soul  amongst 
them.  It  was  but  too  true  that  Dorothy  had  not 


254  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

attended  any  of  the  church  services  for  some  weeks. 
This  was  partly  owing  to  her  enfeebled  state  of 
health,  but  more  particularly  to  a  morbid  dread  of 
adding  to  the  great  weight  of  deceit  which  already 
burdened  her  conscience.  It  was  absolute  torture 
to  sit  in  her  accustomed  place,  the  pew  reserved  for 
the  wives  of  the  deacons.  In  those  days  this  was 
no  mean  honor.  She  felt  herself  humiliated  and 
crushed,  that  thus  she  sat  raised  high  in  dignity 
above  them  all,  when  had  she  her  just  merits  she 
would  stand  without  the  meeting-house  door,  per 
haps,  excommunicated. 

The  rigid  code  of  morals  of  those  days  would 
have  pronounced  a  weighty  sentence  upon  even 
lighter  misdeeds  than  Dorothy's.  The  almost  sa 
cred  position  held  by  the  clergy  of  Puritan  New 
England  forbade  the  slightest  touch  of  scandal  or 
gossip  smirching  the  name  of  the  minister's  wife, 
without  the  most  penetrating  investigation,  and  this 
rigid  compliance  extended  in  a  great  degree  to  the 
wives  of  the  deacons.  It  appalled  her  when  she 
considered  that  by  her  example  she  was  expected 
to  teach  others  the  narrow  path  of  righteousness, 
when  in  reality  she  looked  upon  herself  as  a  miser 
able  castaway. 


THE    MEETING    OF   THE    MINISTERS.          255 

In  spite  of  Alden's  persuasions,  and  much  to  his 
distress,  she  obstinately  remained  at  home.  For 
some  time  past  Wentworth  had  been  uneasy  in  re 
gard  to  Dorothy  ;  he  did  not  understand  her  strange 
moods,  her  perverse  broodings,  her  forced  smiles 
and  sudden  bursts  of  tears.  Once  indeed  the  sus 
picion  crossed  his  mind,  engendered  by  the  jeering 
words  of  Elizabeth,  that  Dorothy  was  bewitched, 
or — he  rejected  this  latter  suggestion  with  horror — 
in  league  with  some  restless  spirit  of  the  air. 

One  night  they  were  sitting  silently  in  Went- 
worth's  study ;  he  was  writing,  and  she  had  been 
sewing,  but  had  dropped  her  work.  Her  hands 
were  folded  over  it  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
vacancy.  No  sound  was  heard,  except  the  hurried 
scratching  of  the  quill  across  the  paper.  Now  and 
then  the  boughs  of  the  trees  near  the  house  would 
brush  back  and  forth  across  the  window-panes  with 
a  noise  resembling  the  rustling  of  the  garments  of 
some  mysterious  visitor.  The  hour  was  late,  it  was 
drawing  close  to  midnight.  • 

Wentworth  was  preparing  a  paper  to  read  before 
the  magistrates,  counseling  deeper  investigation  into 
the  testimony  advanced  by  the  reckless  and  blood 
thirsty  circle.  Further  than  advocating  such  meas- 


256  DOROTHY   THE    PURITAN. 

tires  he  dared  not  go ;  living  in  the  age  in  which 
he  did,  it  would  not  have  been  possible  for  him  to 
have  discredited  entirely  the  supernatural  workings 
of  witchcraft.  He  believed  in  its  existence  and  was 
in  a  measure  under  its  influence,  but  he  did  not 
believe  in  the  power  of  a  chosen  few  to  locate  the 
witches. 

Suddenly  Dorothy  bent  her  head  forward  and 
inclined  her  ear  in  the  attitude  of  intent  listening. 
Presently  she  stood  upright ;  her  husband  was  too 
busily  occupied  to  notice  her  movements.  She 
took  a  few  steps,  then  paused  and  held  up  her  slen 
der  forefinger.  Above  the  sound  of  the  rapid  mo 
tion  of  the  pen  and  the  swaying  of  the  boughs 
against  the  windows  came  yet  another  vibration 
upon  the  stillness  of  the  night. 

Dorothy's  face  was  in  shadow ;  she  stood  without 
the  circle  of  light  thrown  from  the  candle  that 
rested  upon  the  writing-desk.  She  turned  ab 
ruptly,  and  dropping  her  extended  hand  grasped  her 
'husband's  arm. 

"  The  footsteps,"  she  cried  hoarsely,  "  the  foot 
steps!  They  are  passing,  they  are  taking  me  from 
thee,  my  husband !  Save  me — save  me — thou  canst 
— oh,  thou  canst!" 


THE    MEETING   OF   THE    MINISTERS.          257 

Wentworth  turned  impetuously  and  caught  her 
in  his  arms.  He  held  her  closely  to  him,  and  kissed 
her  passionately.  "  I  do  not  comprehend  thee,"  he 
said  tenderly ;  "  I  hear  no  footsteps ;  'tis  but  the 
phantom  of  thy  brain,  or  perchance  the  wind." 

She  tore  herself  from  his  grasp,  and  darting  to 
the  window  drew  aside  the  curtains,  and  leaned  out 
into  the  air.  He  joined  her. 

"  What  dost  thou  see — a  night  owl?  "  He  spoke 
coaxingly,  as  one  does  to  a  frightened  child. 

"  I  do  not  hear  them  now,"  she  said,  "  they  have 
gone."  Then  turning  toward  her  husband,  she 
clasped  her  hands  in  the  attitude  of  prayer. 

"  Alden  " — her  voice  rose  shrill  and  piercingly 
upon  the  stillness  of  the  midnight  hour — "  I  am 
crushed  to  the  earth  by  a  sorrow  I  have  not  power 
to  reveal  to  thee.  Wretched  and  sinful  I  am ;  my 
soul  is  filled  with  a  great  bitterness.  Though  I 
cannot  tell  thee  now,  a  voice  within  me  says  thou 
shalt  know  ere  long.  When  that  time  is  here,  pity 
me — pity — me — Alden,  for  the  great  love  I  bea» 
thee;  it  is  this  love  of  thee  that  makes  me  weak." 

Again,  like  the  flash  of  a  lantern  in  the  dark, 
across  Wentworth's  brain  darted  the  words  of 
Elizabeth. 


258  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

"  Dorothy,  calm  thyself,"  he  said  sternly.  "  What 
means  this  disclosure?  Hast  had  communication 
with  those  instruments  of  Satan?  What  is  this 
foolishness?  Has  the  spell  been  cast  upon  thee? 
Art  thou  in  bondage  also?" 

"  No,  no,"  she  exclaimed,  "  'tis  not  that,  'tis  not 
that.  I  can  say  no  more,  I  am  weary ;  let  me  go ; 
I  would  rest — the  hour  is  late." 

He  looked  darkly  upon  her  as  she  walked  toward 
the  door.  When  she  reached  the  threshold  she 
turned  and  hesitated  an  instant.  She  appeared  so 
fragile,  so  innocent,  so  childlike  as  the  glow  from  the 
candle  fell  upon  her  fair  face  and  burnished  hair. 
As  he  watched  her  his  heart  reproached  him  for  his 
suspicions. 

"  Perchance  thou  wilt  write  much  later,"  she  said  ; 
"  I  will  bid  thee  good-night,  and  God  guard  thee, 
Alden,  my  beloved!"  She  spoke  wistfully.  "  For 
get  my  words.  I  have  grieved  thee;  forgive  me." 

She  did  not  wait  for  his  response,  but  passed 
slowly  up  the  narrow  staircase  to  the  room  above, 
where,  sick  and  miserable,  she  found  rest  at  last  in  a 
deep,  dreamless  sleep. 

After  Dorothy  had  left  the  room  Wentworth  re 
mained  for  a  long  time  in  profound  thought.  The 


THE    MEETING   OF   THE    MINISTERS.          259 

expression  upon  his  face  was  stern  and  severe.  He 
laid  his  pen  aside  and  bowed  his  head  in  his  hands. 
He  was  baffled  at  this  bewildering  array  of  emo 
tional  tendencies  just  discovered  in  Dorothy's  com 
position.  Could  it  be  that  in  some  remote  manner 
she  was  being  .influenced  by  the  witches?  That 
she  could  be  one  of  them  he  repelled  with  horror; 
not  for  a  moment  would  he  allow  such  a  doubt  to 
find  lodgment  within  him.  He  could  scarce  contain 
himself  from  going  to  her  and  craving  forgiveness 
that  he  should  have  harbored  such  a  thought  even 
for  an  instant.  He  brooded  until  the  morning 
dawned,  and  then  fell  into  a  troubled  sleep  in  his 
chair. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

THE    WARNING    IN   THE    MARKET-PLACE. 

THE  last  month  of  summer  had  come,  and  with 
it  a  great  heat.  The  days  were  radiant  with  a 
cloudless  expanse  of  sky  that  throbbed  and  shim 
mered  with  a  white,  intense  light,  undimmed  by 
storm-bursts  or  mists.  The  foliage  drooped  discon 
solately  in  the  fields  and  by  the  wayside.  Along 
the  well-trodden  country  road  that  ran  through  the 
town,  thence  out  toward  the  edge  of  the  primeval 
forest,  great  clouds  of  blinding  dust  rose  upon  the 
air,  whirled  hither  and  thither,  as  the  hot  wind  blew 
from  the  inland.  The  little  brooks  rippled  faintly  in 
their  shallow  beds  as  they  flowed  slowly  through 
the  parched  meadows.  In  the  gardens  the  flowers 
bloomed  scantily.  The  song  of  the  birds  was 
stilled,  they  having  sought  new  homes  in  the  deep 
glens  and  wooded  hollows,  where  the  heat  scarce 
penetrated. 

The  heat  of  nature  did  not  exceed  in  fierceness 
the  fever  of  excitement  and  terror  that  burned  in 

260 


THE    WARNING   IN   THE    MARKET-PLACE.    26 1 

the  hearts  of  the  people  as  they  clustered  in  groups 
in  the  market-place  of  the  little  Puritan  town. 

It  was  the  iQth  of  August  of  the  year  1692. 
On  this  day  five  more  victims  were  to  pay  the  pen 
alty  of  their  friends'  bigotry  and  ignorance.  The 
names  of  these  unfortunates  were,  George  Bur 
roughs,  John  Proctor,  George  Jacobs,  John  Willard, 
and  Martha  Carrier. 

Crowds  of  men  and  women,  and  even  children, 
were  standing  in  knots  and  scattered  groups  upon 
the  streets.  All  were  Awaiting  and  watching  in 
tently  for  the  carts  containing  the  condemned  to 
pass  by  on  their  ignominious  journey  to  the  place 
of  execution  beyond  the  town.  Upon  the  faces  of 
the  crowd,  whose  cold  features  seemed  hardening 
into  the  rigidity  of  stone,  were  few  signs  of  compas 
sion  or  regret.  In  some  cases  a  few  of  the  unfort 
unates  had  friends  who,  more  bold  than  the  rest, 
dared  speak  in  derision  of  the  magistrates  and  in 
pity  for  the  victims. 

Such  a  one  was  Martha  Holden.  Her  buxom 
figure  and  broad  shoulders  towered  above  many  of 
the  crowrd  as  she  elbowed  her  way  through  them. 
Her  ruddy  cheeks  burned  to  a  crimson  flush,  her 
gray  eyes  flashed  angrily  and  defiantly.  Dorothy 


262  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

walked  close  by  her  side  with  eyes  cast  down,  ex 
cept  when  a  harsh,  denunciatory  sentence  would  be 
uttered  by  some  person  in  the  crowd,  against  the 
condemned.  At  such  a  time  Dorothy  would  trem 
ble  and  grow  pale,  look  pitifully  about  her,  and  at 
tempt  to  pass  unobserved  by  keeping  in  the  wake 
of  her  portly  relative. 

"  Fear  them  not,  child,"  said  Martha  reassuringly. 
"  Put  on  a  bold  front ;  I  give  not  a  jot  for  the  opin 
ion  of  the  entire  clergy  and  magistrates,"  snapping 
her  fingers  as  she  spoke,  and  pointing  contemptu 
ously  toward  the  court-house,  from  whence  would 
soon  issue  the  worthy  retinue  of  exalted  personages 
to  join  the  procession  to  Gallows  Hill. 

It  had  not  been  Dorothy's  wish  to  be  present  at 
this  gathering  of  the  town,  but  Wentworth  had 
peremptorily  bidden  her  to  do  so.  His  reason  she 
suspected.  Of  late  he  had  watched  her  suspi 
ciously,  ever  since  the  night  she  had  lost  her  self- 
control  and  had  revealed  to  him  that  some  secret 
sorrow  was  weighing  upon  her.  Try  as  he  would, 
a  lurking  doubt  assailed  him ;  he  fought  against  it 
valiantly,  yet  all  to  no  purpose. 

It  was  commonly  believed  that  one  in  league 
with  the  witches  dared  not  look  upon  them  as  their 


THE    WARNING   IN    THE    MARKET-PLACE.    263 

souls  passed  to  that  dread  reunion  in  the  realms  of 
their  master.  If  one  who  understood  their  baleful 
workings  and  dealt  in  their  horrid  practices  gazed 
steadfastly  upon  them,  some  sign  of  their  brother 
hood  would  become  known  to  the  observers. 
Wentworth  watched  his  wife  closely  from  the  win 
dows  of  the  court-house  as  she  stood  by  her  aunt's 
side  on  the  street  below. 

The  suspicion  once  fastened  upon  his  imagination 
that  this  secret  trouble  of  Dorothy's  was  connected 
with  the  delusion  that  filled  every  nook  and  cranny 
of  the  village  was  gaining  slowly  but  steadily  upon 
him.  He  could  conjecture  no  other  solution  of  the 
mystery  of  her  sighs,  her  tears,  her  incomprehen 
sible  remarks,  her  desire  for  solitude,  her  fear  to 
enter  a  church.  Yet  all  these  things  might  be  ex 
plained  naturally,  he  argued ;  at  all  events  he  must 
first  have  proof,  and  strong  proof,  that  she  had 

sealed  that  fatal  covenant.  And  then — then 

He  dared  think  no  further;  his  brain  reeled,  his 
thoughts  wandered  aimlessly,  ending  in  a  chaos  of 
doubt  and  loss. 

"  The  magistrates  know  their  business,  Martha," 
remonstrated  a  friend  who  was  speaking  softly  to 
the  excited  old  woman,  who,  with  shrill  speech  and 


264  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

harsh  epithets,  gave  voice  to  her  rage  at  the  pro 
ceedings. 

"  Know  their  business!"  repeated  Martha.  "  Is  it 
their  business  to  murder  these  God-fearing,  pious 
persons?  Forsooth,  I  would  I  had  the  right  to  sit 
in  judgment  on  these  wiseacres.  I  would  place  on 
each  empty  pate  the  fool's-cap  and  bid  them  march 
through  the  streets  of  Salem." 

"  Hush,  hush,  Aunt  Martha,"  said  Dorothy; 
"  the  people  are  all  looking  our  way." 

"What  care  I  for  the  people?"  She  raised  her 
voice  until  it  reached  a  shout.  "  I  tell  them  all, 
and  without  fear,  that  they  have  committed  a  most 
grievous  wrong — a  wrong  they  can  never  right. 
Goodwives,  have  ye  no  heart?  Will  ye  look  on 
while  these  our  old  friends  die  in  innocence?" 
With  desperate  eagerness  she  rushed  forward,  and 
mounting  upon  a  cart  that  stood  in  the  center  of 
the  street,  she  gazed  bravely  over  the  heads  of  the 
cold,  silent  throng.  "Will  ye  hear  me?"  she  cried. 
"  Let  these  poor  prisoners  free.  Ye  cannot  know 
the  fearful  thing  ye  do  permit.  Beseech  the  judges 
for  their  lives;  there  is  yet  time." 

"  Out  upon  her!"  called  a  harsh  voice.  "  Put  the 
old  woman  out,  drag  her  from  the  cart,  throttle  her ! " 


THE    WARNING   IN    THE    MARKET-PLACE.    265 

"Hush,  hush,  for  mercy's  sake!  "  said  Dorothy 
tearfully,  starting  forward,  and  standing  by  the  side 
of  the  cart.  "  They  will  do  thee  harm ;  they  are 
overwrought." 

"'  I  will  not  hush.  I  have  my  speech ;  I  shall  use 
it  in  defense  of  these  my  poor  friends." 

At  this  a  terrible  commotion  was  visible  among 
the  people ;  they  swayed  back  and  forth  with  the 
intense  excitement  that  possessed  them,  and  Martha 
was  roughly  jostled  to  the  ground  by  the  surging 
mass.  On  closer  examination  it  was  discovered 
that  one  of  the  afflicted  children  had  been  taken 
with  a  strange  and  terrible  spasm.  Her  limbs  were 
drawn  up,  her  mouth  was  twitched  to  one  side,  her 
eyes  rolled  horribly.  From  her  throat  issued  pierc 
ing  shrieks  interspersed  with  denunciatory  words 
against  some  one  who  did  afflict  her,  and  who, 
she  did  assert,  was  even  then  standing  in  the 
crowd. 

"Where  is  she?  Where  is  she?"  cried  an  emo 
tional  individual.  "  I  will  strike  her,"  twirling  his 
cane  as  he  spoke,  so  that  it  came  in  rather  uncom 
fortable  proximity  to  the  heads  of  some  of  the  as 
semblage. 

"  She  is  near  me !      Her  eyes  are  piercing  mine, 


266  DOROTHY   THE   PURITAN. 

they  burn!     I  suffer  tortures!     Take  her  away,  take 
her  away!" 

At  this  juncture  a  tall,  imposing  figure  made  her 
way  with  some  difficulty  through  the  closely  packed 
throng.  The  people  gazed  with  awe  and  respect 
upon  the  new-comer,  though  not  unmixed  with  a 
superstitious  fear.  Elizabeth,  for  it  was  she,  did 
not  notice  their  deference.  Going  swiftly  to  the 
girl,  she  stooped  over  her  and  spoke  some  words 
close  to  her  ear.  Even  as  she  did  so  she  was  also 
seized  with  a  like  spasm,  only,  if  possible,  more 

* 

fearful  to  behold. 

"  We  are  bewitched,"  she  shrieked,  as  she  writhed 
upon  the  ground,  "  we  are  bewitched !  The  woman 
who  doeth  us  this  harm  is  standing  in  the  crowd." 

"Where,  where?  "  called  a  chorus  of  voices. 

"  There  she  stands,"  cried  Elizabeth,  rising  to  her 
feet  and  pointing  toward  Dorothy.  Her  face  was 
pale,  her  eyes  bloodshot,  her  whole  bearing  instinct 
with  a  frenzy  approaching  madness.  "  I  scarce 
dare  look  upon  her — there,  with  the  old  woman  by 
her  side.  She  is  the  queen  of  the  witches;  they 
do  her  bidding  night  and  day.  I  do  denounce 
thee,  Dorothy  Wentworth,  I,  Elizabeth  Hubbard, 
the  inspired." 


THE  WARNING  IN  THE  MARKET-PLACE.  267 
i 

The  people  all  drew  tremblingly  away  from 
Dorothy  and  her  aunt.  The  women  hurriedly  gath 
ered  the  little  children  together  and  stood  in  front 
of  them.  Dorothy  did  not  flinch ;  she  stood  mo 
tionless  an  instant,  then  looked  calmly  around  upon 
the  clouded  faces  of  her  townspeople. 

"  I  have  done  thee  no  harm,  Elizabeth ;  where 
fore  dost  thou  accuse  me?  "  Her  sweet  voice  rang 
with  dignity  and  reproach. 

"  Thou  art  a  witch,  thou  art  a  witch !  Cast  her 
forth,  cast  her  forth!"  The  two  girls  were  now 
calling  and  shouting  like  two  demons.  Dorothy's 
voice  could  not  be  heard  above  the  general  uproar. 

Wentworth  had  left  the  window  a  few  minutes 
before,  having  been  called  to  ^attend  to  some  last 
requests  of  the  condemned  in  their  cells.  Some  of 
the  men  now  rushed  toward  Dorothy,  but  Martha 
stepped  in  front  of  her,  spreading  out  her  powerful 
arms. 

"Touch  her  if  ye  dare,"  she  cried,  "and  my 
curse  upon  ye  shall  be  heavier  than  any  witch's 
spell!"  She  was  deathly  pale;  the  crimson  flush 
had  faded  from  her  cheeks ;  her  old  figure  was 
erect,  though  trembling  with  agitation.  The  men 
drew  back  a  few  paces ;  Dorothy  was  as  one  in  a 


268  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

dream.  The  swaying  throng,  the  angry  faces,  the 
heated  street,  the  intense  blue  of  the  midday  sky, 
all  took  on  phantom  shapes,  intangible,  unreal. 

"  Away  with  the  witch !  She  tortures  us !  Away 
with  her!"  again  came  the  cries. 

The  men  started  forward  once  more.  "  Let  us 
take  her  e'en  now  before  the  judges,"  they  said. 
"  There  is  still  room  in  the  carts  for  another  of  these 
accursed  creatures." 

"  Thou  canst  not  arrest  her,  thou  hast  no  war 
rant,"  cried  Martha  triumphantly.  "Come,  Doro 
thy,  come  with  me  ;  we  will  leave  this  place  ;  come 
to  thy  home,  they  cannot  harm  thee." 

The  bewildered  girl  turned  mechanically,  and 
Martha  grasped  her,  hand.  The  men  stood  irreso 
lute  ;  they  knew  they  could  not  arrest  her  without 
the  necessary  warrant.  The  two  women  proceeded 
a  few  steps  down  the  street,  the  people  watching 
them  sullenly,  then  Martha  turned.  Shaking  her 
finger  in  the  direction  of  Elizabeth,  who  stood  dark 
and  sinister,  watching  Dorothy  intently,  she  said, 
"  Thou  art  a  wicked  girl.  I  know  thy  motive. 
Thou  art  a  murderess;  woe  be  to  thee!  The  future 
will  bring  thee  thy  punishment." 

Dorothy  did   not   speak   as   they  walked  slowly 


THE    WARNING   IN   THE    MARKET-PLACE.    269 

onward.  Her  throat  was  dry,  her  lips  parched,  but 
one  idea  shone  clearly  before  her  mind.  The  be 
ginning  of  the  end  had  come,  the  dread  expected 
with  all  its  accompanying  horrors  had  fallen.  The 
hot  sunshine  fell  upon  her  delicate  face,  which  was 
growing  paler  from  the  effect  of  the  heat,  but  she 
scarcely  heeded  it;  no  physical  discomfort  could 
trouble  her  now. 

"  I  am  tired,  Aunt  Martha,"  she  said  finally ; 
"  let  us  rest  here  awhile,"  pausing  under  the  shade 
of  a  willow-tree. 

Some  members  of  the  angry  crowd  had  followed, 
and  a  few  stones  had  been  thrown  by  vicious  boys ; 
now,  however,  they  had  returned  to  their  places, 
eager  not  to  miss  any  portion  of  the  procession 
forming,  as  they  could  tell  by  the  heavy  rolling  of 
the  carts  and  the  distant  shouts  of  the  men. 

The  street  on  which  the  two  women  rested  was 
merely  a  narrow  lane  leading  from  the  market 
place.  It  was  very  quiet,  there  being  few  houses 
in  the  vicinity,  and  every  one  that  could  attend  had 
been  anxious  to  join  the  parade  of  the  day,  and 
thus  bear  witness  by  their  presence  to  their  sym 
pathy  with  the  dictates  of  justice. 

A  little  child  came  out  of  a  house  at  some  dis- 


270  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

tance  down  the  lane  and  advanced  singing  in  glee 
along  the  road,  all  unconscious  of  the  dreadful  trag 
edy  which  was  being  enacted  close  at  hand.  The 
little  fellow  came  up  to  Dorothy  and  smiled  con 
fidingly  upon  her,  laying  his  chubby  hand  on  her 
knee.  At  sight  of  his  sweet  face  she  burst  into 
tears  and  drew  him  closely  to  her  side. 

"  He  believes  in  me,"  she  said  sadly.  "  Happy 
little  boy,  thou  knowest  no  trouble  as  yet.  May 
thy  life  be  brighter  than  mine  has  been."  She 
kissed  him  tenderly  upon  his  forehead,  and  he 
nestled  close  beside  her,  looking  up  smilingly  into 
her  face. 

At  this  instant  a  loud  cry  was  heard  from  a 
woman,  who  came  rushing  down  the  lane  from  the 
direction  of  the  court-house.  As  she  neared  the 
group  beneath  the  willow-tree,  they  noticed  that 
she  was  in  a  state  of  consternation  and  fear. 
"Take  thy  defiled  touch  from  off  my  child!"  she 
screamed.  "  Wouldst  thou  seek  to  add  his  name 
to  thine  in  the  Black  Book?  Come  hither  to  thy 
mother."  She  rushed  forward  and  snatched  the 
child  to  her  breast.  "  She  is  a  witch,  little  one ; 
she  will  harm  thee." 

At  the  word  "  witch  "  the  boy  set  up  a  cry  of  ter- 


THE    WARNING    IN   THE    MARKET-PLACE.    271 

ror ;  he  clung  to  his  mother,  then  slipped  from  her 
clasp  and  tried  to  hide  amongst  her  skirts.  Martha 
appeared  to  be  struck  dumb  by  this  distressing  scene. 

"  Surely,  neighbor,"  she  said  finally,  "  thou  canst 
not  believe  these  lies  against  the  wife  of  the  hon 
ored  judge,  who  is  also  thy  friend." 

There  was  indescribable  pathos  and  supplication 
discernible  in  Martha's  voice ;  her  courage  and  de 
fiance  had  deserted  her ;  she  was  now  the  supplicant. 

"  Why,  then,  does  she  not  attend  the  meetings  on, 
the  Lord's  Day  ?  "  said  the  woman.  "  Of  a  certainty 
they  have  found  much  proof  against  her."  As  she 
spoke  she  endeavored  to  still  the  frenzied  screams 
of  the  child,  who  tugged  at  his  mother's  skirts  and 
now  and  then  looked  forth  from  their  shelter  with  a 
glance  of  fascinated  childish  terror  upon  Dorothy. 

"  They  have  no  proof  save  that  gathered  by  that 
wretched  circle.  I  fear  not  for  Dorothy.  Alden 
can  protect  her.  They  will  not  dare  issue  a  war 
rant  against  the  wife  of  one  so  high  in  favor,  and  a 
friend  of  the  governor's." 

The  woman  did  not  reply  immediately ;  then  she 
said,  as  she  turned  from  them,  "  Elizabeth  Hubbard 
hath  denounced  her;  what  greater  proof  need  ye?" 

She  hurried  from  them  along  the  road,  hushing 


2/2  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

the  child.  She  had  lifted  him  in  her  arms,  and  she 
now  pressed  his  head  close  against  her  shoulder,  so 
that  he  could  not  look  back  upon  the  bowed  figure 
resting  under  the  drooping  willow  branches. 

The  figure  remained  motionless.  She  might  have 
been  dead  for  all  outward  signs  of  animation :  her 
head  was  bent  forward  in  her  lap,  her  arms  hung 
heavily  by  her  side,  stray  sunbeams  lay  upon  her 
brown,  waving  hair. 

"Rouse  up,  child,  show  thy  spirit."  Martha 
shook  her  by  the  arm.  Poor  Martha's  courage  was 
well-nigh  spent ;  she  fully  realized  the  hopelessness 
of  the  case  of  one  denounced  by  the  all-powerful 
circle ;  her  heart  was  heavy  with  a  dread  fore 
boding. 

"  I  have  no  spirit,"  said  Dorothy.  "  I  have 
fought  so  long  that  now  my  strength  is  gone. 
What  matters  it?  I  am  no  better  than  those  who 
have  gone  before,  and  who  now  are  at  rest." 

"  Say  not  so,  say  not  so.  There  is  still  hope,  I 
wot,  that  Alden  hath  more  influence  than  those 
wicked  imps  of  Satan,  who  desire  to  drink  innocent 
blood." 

"  He  will  not  plead  for  me ;  he  is  from  hence 
forth  as  one  apart  from  me." 


THE    WARNING   IN   THE    MARKET-PLACE.    273 

"  Dorothy,  art  thou  crazed  ?  What  is  the  mean 
ing  of  such  words?  " 

"  Thou  wilt  know  soon,  yet  not  from  me ;  I  must 
tell  another  first.  I  can  speak  no  further.  Let  us 
hasten  home ;  I  hear  the  fearful  din  and  the  rumble 
of  the  carts.  Let  us  get  within  the  shelter  of  the 
house." 

The  two  women  walked  silently  the  short  remain 
ing  distance.  They  entered  the  low  gate  before 
the  new  house — that  abode  wherein  two  happy 
united  hearts  had  thought  to  live  in  peace  and  love. 
Dorothy  looked  sadly  around  upon  the  familiar 
scene ;  her  aunt  stood  by  her  side,  her  eyes  down 
cast  and  filled  with  blinding  tears. 

"Alas,  alas!"  she  sobbed,  "the  child  that  I 
tended  so  faithfully  to  come  to  this!  'Tis  hard,  'tis 
hard!" 

"Grieve  not,"  said  Dorothy  solemnly;  "thou 
hast  been  ever  kind  and  good.  I  did  but  ill  re 
quite  thee.  Yet  now  I  love  thee  dearly.  Thou 
canst  not  help  me  in  this  trouble — none  can,  save 
God." 

The  two  women  seated  themselves  in  the  door 
of  the  porch,  each  engrossed  with  her  own  bitter 
thoughts.  The  afternoon  was  drawing  near;  the 


274  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

sun  was  already  stealing  toward  the  west.  The 
light  and  heat  had  become  somewhat  diminished ;  a 
welcome  breeze  sprang  up  from  the  north,  rustling 
the  leaves  gently  with  its  cool  breath,  till  they 
looked  as  though  nodding  and  addressing  each 
other ;  the  drooping  flowers  appeared  less  despond 
ent  as  the  shadows  of  the  trees  near  the  house  fell 
across  them. 

A  man  came  wearily  up  the  narrow  garden  path. 

* 

His  face  was  pale,  deep  lines  were  indented  upon 
his  forehead.  He  stooped  as  he  walked,  and  his 
hands  hung  by  his  side.  When  he  reached  the 
porch,  the  two  women  arose  and  waited  for  him  to 
speak.  His  words  came  quickly,  thrilled  with  pas 
sion  intermingled  with  anxiety  and  fear. 

"  Dorothy,  I  know  all :  they  have  accused  thee 
publicly  in  the  market-place.  Thou  art  under  the 
ban.  They  will  seek  to  procure  a  warrant.  Yet 
fear  not.  God  forgive  me  that  I  ever  doubted  thee. 
Thou  art  innocent,  and  I  am  thy  husband  and  thy 
protector.  I  will  shield  thee,  no  matter  what  powers 
there  be  against  thee.  Canst  thou  forgive  me  that 
I  ever  doubted  thee,  so  pure  and  good?" 

She  winced  at  these  words.     "  Thou  wilt  aid  me 


THE    WARNING   IN   THE    MARKET-PLACE.    275 

no  matter  what  happens?  "  she  repeated  with  trem 
bling  eagerness.  "Art  thou  certain  of  thy  words — 
no  matter  what  powers  there  be  against  me?  " 

"  Ay,  I  know  whereof  I  speak.  I  have  influence 
with  those  high  in  office." 

As  if  controlled  by  some  recollections,  he  shud 
dered  when  he  had  finished  speaking,  and  placed 
his  hands  before  his  face. 

"  Merciful  Heaven,  spare  me  the  fearful  sights  I 
have  witnessed  this  day!  I  have  lost  my  strength 
from  very  horror  of  the  deaths  of  those  creatures, 
be  they  guilty  or  innocent  of  the  charges  held 
against  them." 

"Speak  not  of  it,  I  cannot  bear  it!"  wailed 
Dorothy. 

Martha  left  them  as  they  conversed,  turning  at 
the  gate  to  wish  them  good-night.  Wentworth's 
arm  was  across  Dorothy's  shoulder,  she  was  leaning 
against  him.  The  daylight  was  waning,  the  lowing 
of  the  cattle  sounded  distinctly  across  the  meadows. 
Side  by  side  they  watched  the  setting  of  the  sun 
behind  the  low  line  of  hills.  The  yellow  glow  stole 
tenderly  across  Dorothy's  face,  and  lingered  upon 
her  simple  gown  of  blue  tiffany.  She  appeared 


276  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

irradiated  by  an  everlasting  glory  from  another 
world,  so  ethereal  was  her  bearing.  Wentworth 
drew  her  lovingly  toward  him. 

"They  shall  not  harm  thee,  my  own,"  he  said. 
She  did  not  answer;  she  was  unconscious  of  his 
presence.  The  world  was  slipping  from  her  grasp. 
She  saw  nothing  material ;  she  was  gazing  yearn 
ingly  into  that  beautiful  new  life  beyond  the  sunset. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

THE    SCENE   AT   THE   JUDGE'S   HOUSE. 

No  doubt  the  very  tenderness  of  Dorothy's  char 
acter  increased  in  no  slight  degree  the  enormity  of 
her  offense  in  her  own  eyes,  while  an  extremely 
sensitive  organization  aided  in  completing  her 
humiliation.  She  realized  to  the  fullest  extent 
what  was  expected  of  one  in  her  position,  and  also 
her  utter  inability  to  comply  with  the  demands  of 
her  calling.  The  terrible  accusations  that  had  been 
made  against  her  by  the  witch-accusers  had  natu 
rally  alarmed  her.  This,  however,  was  dwarfed  into 
insignificance  by  the  dread  that  daily  and  hourly 
tortured  her  of  losing  her  husband's  faith  and  love. 
This  dread  robbed  every  waking  hour  of  peace,  and 
filled  her  troubled  sleep  with  wretched  nightmares. 

There  appeared  to  be  no  way  out  of  all  this  mis 
ery,  and  sometimes  in  the  silent  hours  of  night  the 
tempter  would  warily  approach  her,  and  whisper  in 
her  ear,  "  Sir  Grenville  has  pointed  out  a  way ; 
hearken  unto  him."  At  such  times  she  would 

277 


278  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

shudder  and  stretch  out  her  hands  in  the  darkness, 
as  if  to  thrust  aside  some  reality  that  loomed  up 
from  the  shadows  that  surrounded  her. 

A  week  or  more  had  elapsed  cince  the  public  de 
nunciation  in  the  market-place.  An  ominous  silence 
had  followed  the  storm,  ruffled  only  by  the  cold, 
repelling  glances  that  followed  her  whenever  she 
left  the  shelter  of  her  home.  The  little  children 
scattered  wildly  at  her  approach,  and  doors  and 
shutters  were  hurriedly  closed  when  she  passed 
down  the  streets. 

The  first  day  of  September  had  come.  The 
weather  still  remained  sultry,  though  one  could  no 
tice  a  perceptible  change  in  the  length  of  the  days. 
A  fall  haze  gathered  upon  the  hills  toward  evening, 
rendering  them  blue  and  indefinable. 

Dorothy  was  seated  one  afternoon  in  the  living- 
room  of  her  home.  She  was  idle,  or  if  she  em 
ployed  herself  occasioanlly  upon  some  fine  linen 
work  that  lay  in  her  lap,  it  was  by  fits  and  starts ; 
she  drew  the  thread  in  and  out  in  a  mechanical 
fashion,  her  gaze  wandering  constantly  through  the 
opened  window,  over  the  widespreading  fields  of 
the  farming  district.  On  the  broad  window-ledge 
rested  her  psalm-book.  She  had  been  hopelessly 


THE    SCENE    AT   THE   JUDGE'S    HOUSE.       279 

seeking  its  pages  for  comfort,  and  had  then  laid  it 
aside.  A  pot  of  plants  bloomed  upon  the  ledge ; 
now  and  then  the  breeze  rustled  the  leaves  and 
sent  a  sweet,  penetrating  odor  into  the  room.  Her 
spinning-wheel,  with  its  flax  ready  at  hand,  was 
beside  her.  The  sun  crept  around,  till  its  light 
stole  past  the  window,  leaving  the  room  in  semi- 
coldness  and  darkness. 

Dorothy  leaned  back  against  her  high  carved 
chair,  closed  her  eyes,  and  sat  very  still ;  her  work 
fell  to  the  floor  and  lay  unheeded  at  her  feet.  She 
was  aroused  from  her  apathy  by  the  consciousness 
of  some  presence  near  at  hand.  She  started,  sat 
upright,  and  glanced  toward  the  window.  The 
malevolent  countenance  of  Elizabeth  was  pressed 
against  the  panes.  Dorothy  rose  from  her  chair, 
went  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  standing  an  instant 
upon  the  threshold,  she  timidly  invited  her  enemy 
to  enter. 

Elizabeth  came  forward,  and  stood  close  to  her 
upon  the  doorstep ;  then  she  brushed  hastily  by 
her,  entered  the  doorway,  and  advanced  to  the  cen 
ter  of  the  room.  She  paused  an  instant,  eying 
Dorothy  curiously,  then  spoke. 

"  Thou,  methinks,  art  a  worthy  personage  to  hold 


280  DOROTHY   THE   PURITAN. 

thine  exalted  place.  It  is  no  doubt  a  merry  prank 
for  thee  to  sit  in  thy  high  seat  when  thou  knowest 
thou  art  a  hypocrite." 

Dorothy  recoiled ;  little  gasps  came  from  her 
white  lips. 

"What  dost  thou  mean?"  she  said. 

"  I  know  thy  secret,  thou  perverted  one.  I  know 
of  thy  escapade  with  Sir  Grenville  Lawson.  When 
thou  forsooth  didst  draw  the  veil  well  across  the 
eyes  of  thy  friends  with  stories  of  sickness  and 
wanderings,  it  was  left  to  me  to  expose  thee. 
Thou  art  indeed  a  worthy  follower  of  thy  master; 
he  has  taught  thee  well  the  secrets  of  his  art." 

"  I  know  not  whereof  thou  hast  spoken,"  said 
Dorothy  faintly.  "  Where  hast  thou  heard  such  a 
story  of  me?  " 

"That  is  mine  affair;  my  knowledge  is  mine 
own.  Yet  know  this — that  thou  art  lost,  no  power 
can  help  thee  now ;  for  of  a  certainty  thy  husband 
will  not  be  thy  friend  when  he  hears  of  this 
deception." 

At  the  words  "  thy  husband  "  Dorothy  trembled 
and  grasped  the  back  of  a  chair  to  keep  herself 
from  falling.  Her  face  appeared  to  shrivel  and 
grow  small  and  peaked,  like  the  face  of  the  aged. 


THE    SCENE   AT   THE   JUDGE'S    HOUSE.       28 1 

"Wilt  thou  tell  him?"  she  gasped. 

Elizabeth  seized  her  arm  and  bent  down  over  her. 
"Ay,  I  will  tell  him,  and  know  well  that  this  is  the 
debt  I  owe  thee.  Thou  didst  take  from  me  the  one 
thing  I  desired  above  all  others,  the  one  thing  that, 
stolen  from  me,  as  thou  didst  steal  it,  by  false  meas 
ures^  made  the  world  henceforth  a  wasted  place, 
where  I  walk  without  peace  or  hope." 

"  I  do  not  comprehend  thee,"  faltered  Dorothy, 
trying  to  draw  her  arm  from  the  fierce  clutch  that 
held  her  like  a  vise. 

"  No,  thou  canst  not ;  thy  weak,  soft  nature  can 
not  comprehend  my  strength ;  that  strength,  per 
verted  from  its  rightful  channel,  has  turned  into 
hatred  for  thee." 

She  released  her  hold  upon  her  victim  and  thrust 
her  roughly  from  her. 

"  Spare  me,"  said  Dorothy,  clasping  her  wasted 
hands,  "  spare  me  for  the  sake  of  the  old  days  when 
we  were  friends." 

"  I  have  no  pity,"  cried  Elizabeth;  "  I  know  not 
the  meaning  of  the  word.  Why  should  I  pity 
thee?  Thou  hast  made  me  what  I  am;  thou  hast 
woven  thy  fate — the  strands  are  strengthened  by 
thine  own  hands." 


282  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

"  Ay,  ay,  thou  sayest  truly ;  yet  I  have  suffered 
— thou  wilt  never  know  how  sorely.  Wilt  thou  not 
relent?  " 

"  I  tell  thee  no,  for  all  time." 

"  Then  thou  shalt  not  do  thy  worst.  I  will  tell 
Alden  of  my  deception  myself;  thy  cruel  lips  shall 
not  reveal  to  him  my  error,  for  error  only  it  was.  I 
will  tell  thee  the  truth :  I  did  fly  with  Sir  Grenville, 
to  be  married  in  Boston,  thence  to  sail  for  England. 
He  deceived  me  ;  he  was  already  married.  I  escaped 
him  on  the  confines  of  the  forest.  All  else  that  I 
did  tell  is  truth,  save  that  I  did  withhold  the  name 
of  the  woman  who  sheltered  me." 

"  I  believe  thee  not ;  thou  hast  perjured  thyself 
once,  thou  canst  perjure  thyself  again — when  thy 
life  is  at  stake.  On  with  thy  weaving — the  strands 
will  but  draw  the  tighter  noose  around  thy  slim 
neck." 

Dorothy  shuddered,  and  instinctively  placed  her 
hand  to  her  throat.  That  moment  her  timidity  left 
her.  Drawing  herself  up,  she  raised  her  head 
proudly. 

"  Thou  mayst  ruin  me  if  thou  wilt ;  thou  canst 
take  my  life ;  yet  it  is  not  in  thy  power  to  take  from 
me  the  love  that  has  been  mine,  and  which  is  cov- 


THE    SCENE    AT   THE   JUDGE'S    HOUSE.       283 

eted  by  thee.  In  the  clear  light  of  God's  throne 
the  truth  is  revealed  which  I  repeat  to  thee.  I 
have  been  foolish  and  wayward.  I  have  done  that 
which  I  regret  in  bitterest  sorrow  and  remorse. 
Thou  wouldst  believe  worse  of  me,  Elizabeth,  for 
thine  own  advancement,  but  thou  art  not  stronger 
than  the  truth." 

"  Of  a  certainty  thou  hast  a  cunning  manner!  A 
few  hours  hence  will  tell  how  much  longer  thou 
canst  play  thy  part.  I  go  to  fetch  the  wedding  gift 
I  promised  thee."  She  took  a  few  steps  toward 
the  door.  Dorothy  followed  her,  and  grasped  her 
gown. 

"  Have  mercy,  have  mercy,  as  some  day,  per 
chance,  thou  wilt  need  mercy.  Let  me  tell  my 
husband.  This  thing  that  thou  wilt  tell  is  false ; 
yet  should  he  believe  it,  it  would  turn  his  love  to 
bitterest  hatred.  He  believes  in  me — he  believes 
in  me.  There  is  no  proof  save  in  my  word,  and 
that  is  doubted ;  but  there  is  still  a  hope  within  me 
that  he  will  forgive.  Elizabeth,  Elizabeth,  take  that 
hope  from  me  and  naught  remains  save  despair." 

Elizabeth  dragged  her  gown  roughly  from  the 
clinging  hold  and  stepped  over  the  threshold. 

"  Dost  thou  not  know  that  thou  art  an  accursed 


284  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

witch  ?  A  witch  has  no  redress ;  she  cannot  speak 
the  truth,  she  is  one  with  the  father  of  lies." 

"  That  is  as  naught  to  me ;  I  did  forget  it  in  this 
greater  calamity  that  has  come  upon  me — this  story 
thou  hast  heard,  where,  I  cannot  conjecture.  I  have 
no  desire  to  live.  No,  Elizabeth,  all  I  ask  of  thee  is 
to  let  me  first  acquaint  him  with  the  true  facts ;  then 
do  thy  worst,  cause  my  arrest.  I  care  not,  if  he 
but  believe  in  me." 

Her  tormentor  brushed  rudely  past  her,  saying, 
"  It  is  too  late ;  thou  hast  made  a  puppet  of  thy 
fate,  tossed  it  hither  and  thither  in  wanton  sport ; 
now  it  recoils  on  thee  for  vengeance." 

She  strode  rapidly  from  the  sight  of  the  frenzied 
girl  and  disappeared  among  the  trees. 

After  watching  the  retreating  figure  till  lost  to 
sight,  Dorothy  returned  to  her  seat  by  the  window, 
and  to  her  dreary,  hopeless  thoughts.  She  had  at 
last  fully  determined  upon  her  course.  When  her 
husband  returned,  which  he  would  do  ere  long,  she 
would  confess  all  and  abide  by  the  consequences,  be 
they  what  they  may.  This  decision  arrived  at,  a 
great  calmness  crept  over  her;  she  sat  with  folded 
hands,  a  patient  smile  upon  her  face. 

The  weary,  useless  struggle  was  over.     The  night 


THE    SCENE   AT   THE   JUDGE'S    HOUSE.       285 

came  on,  and  the  room  filled  with  shadows.  All 
was  very  still  without,  no  sounds  of  passing  in  the 
street.  Nothing  broke  the  silence,  save  the  twitter 
ing  of  the  birds,  singing  sweetly  as  they  flew  from 
branch  to  branch. 

Presently  she  heard  the  violent  slamming  of  the 
garden  gate,  then  hurried  steps  upon  the  walk,  then 
a  dark  figure  rushed  past  the  window,  and  Martha, 
breathless,  panting,  dashed  into  the  room. 

"  Dorothy,  Dorothy,  child,  where  art  thou?  " 

"  I  am  here,  Aunt  Martha." 

"Light  the  candles — hasten,  hasten!  I  have 
much  to  tell  thee ;  I  am  well-nigh  crazed." 

As  she  spoke  she  lit  the  candles  on  the  mantel 
shelf,  Dorothy  not  moving  from  her  chair.  Then 
Martha  went  to  her,  and  taking  her  hand  led  her 
forward  to  the  light. 

"  How  can  I  tell  thee,  little  one,"  she  sobbed, 
"  how  can  I  ?  Be  thou  brave." 

"  I  know  what  thou  wouldst  say,  aunt.  Speak ; 
I  am  strong  to-night." 

"  It  is  then  too  true :  they  have  procured  a  war 
rant  for  thy  arrest  on  the  testimony  of  the  circle. 
Alden  has  been  interceding  for  thee;  he  is  beside 
himself  with  grief.  He  is  e'en  now  with  the  judges, 


286  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

and  most  eloquently  has  he  plead  in  thy  defense ; 
so  much  so,  they  do  tell  me,  that  the  tears  did  flow 
down  their  cheeks,  even  while  they  refused  to  re 
lease  thee." 

"Merciful  Heaven!"  said  Dorothy.  "And  must 
I  add  to  grief  such  as  this?  " 

''  What  is  it  thou  hast  said,  child?  "  queried  Mar 
tha  curiously.  "  I  do  not  comprehend.  Yet  how 
canst  thou  speak  aught  of  sense,  when  this  fearful 
fate  is  before  thee?  " 

"  I  fear  not  that — oh  no,  not  that!  There  are  far 
worse  sorrows  than  death." 

"  Death ! "  exclaimed  Martha.  "  I  tell  thee  thou 
shalt  not  die  by  their  hands.  Dost  thou  think  I 
shall  desert  thee?  Not  so;  thou  shalt  escape.  I 
have  brought  with  me  a  disguise — see,  thou  shalt 
don  it — and  I  have  horses  waiting  on  the  borders  of 
the  forest,  and  good  trusty  friends.  There  is  time ; 
the  streets  are  quiet.  I  will  go  with  thee,  and  with 
the  help  of  the  Father  of  the  fatherless  thou  shalt 
be  saved  from  thine  enemies." 

"And  Alden " 

"  He  knows  of  this  plan ;  as  a  last  resource  he 
advises  it.  He  will  be  here  anon,  when  he  con 
siders  all  effort  hopeless  with  the  presiding  judges." 


THE    SCENE   AT   THE   JUDGE'S    HOUSE.       287 

Dorothy  drew  nearer  to  her  aunt,  and  taking  her 
hand  looked  into  her  face.  The  light  from  the 
candle  fell  upon  the  girl,  upon  the  bronze  brown  of 
her  hair,  holding  its  reflection  until  it  shone  like  a 
halo  around  the  head  of  a  martyred  saint.  Martha 
started  as  the  wonderful  courage  depicted  on  those 
yet  almost  childlike  features  betrayed  itself  to  her 
intent  gaze. 

"Aunt  Martha,  I  shall  not  try  to  escape.  I  thank 
thee  for  thy  love  and  care.  I  will  go  with  my 
jailers  when  they  come  for  me.  My  heart  has  been 
in  prison  this  many  a  day.  What  is  my  body  that 
I  should  mourn  its  sufferings?" 

"My  child,  my  little  child!"  She  clasped  her 
convulsively  and  held  her  tightly  against  her  breast. 
"  I  tell  thee,  thou  art  beside  thyself,  and  what  won 
der!  Thou  must  escape!  What  is  this  foolish  talk 
of  sorrows?  Thou  art  young,  thy  husband  loves 
thee,  thou  art  honored.  Is  thy  life  not  worth  the 
saving?  I  tell  thee  it  is,  and  I,  with  the  help  of 
God,  will  save  it." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Dorothy,  drawing  away  from  her, 
"  I  am  determined.  I  shall  not  make  one  effort  to 
escape.  It  is  not  a  sacrifice,  as  thou  deemest,  it  is 
retribution." 


288  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

"  I  tell  thee,  them  shalt  be  saved,  even  if  Alden 
and  I  between  us  carry  thee  by  force  and  tie  thee 
in  the  pillion." 

"  I  will  even  then  not  go  with  thee.  Be  not  too 
sanguine  that  my  husband  will  aid  me.  I  have 
something  to  tell  him  which  I  cannot  tell  thee." 
She  choked  and  gasped.  "  Soon,  very  soon,  thou 
wilt  know  all." 

Martha  burst  into  a  torrent  of  uncontrollable  sobs. 
"  Can  it  be  that  this  is  the  little  babe  I  brought 
across  the  seas  from  England,  that  I  did  love  e'en 
better  than  all  else,  that  I  did  take  such  pride  in? 
And  now — now — O  Father  in  heaven,  hear  me, 
have  pity  on  me ! " 

"Hush,  hush!"  said  Dorothy.  "Hush,  I  would 
be  calm  this  hour.  Take  not  from  me  my 
strength." 

Martha  raised  her  flushed  face,  then  started  to 
her  feet 

"What  is  that  uproar?  I  hear  the  tramping  of 
feet,"  she  cried,  rushing  toward  the  window. 

Dorothy  did  not  speak ;  she  stood  quietly  within 
the  circle  of  light  thrown  from  the  candle  on  the 
shelf.  A  serene  peace  rested  in  the  lovely  wide- 
opened  eyes.  Martha  darted  back  from  the  win- 


THE    SCENE   AT   THE   JUDGE'S    HOUSE.       289 

dow.  "Hide,  hide!"  she  shrieked,  grasping  her 
arm  and  endeavoring  to  drag  her  from  her  place. 
"It  is  the  warrant,  it  is  the  warrant!"  She  could 
not  move  the  firm,  unflinching  girl.  "  Fly  to  the 
well- house — /  will  face  them.  I  fear  not  the  whole 
town  of  Salem." 

"  I  tell  thee  no;  bide  quiet,  I  wait  for  them." 

"  My  God,  help  me!"  cried  Martha.  "  How  can 
I  live  and  see  this  thing?  'Tis  but  yesterday,  it 
seems,  thou  wast  a  little  helpless  infant,  and  now  to 
give  thee  up  to  this  awful  fate — a  witch,  a  witch, 
hooted,  shunned,  excommunicated,  hung !  Dorothy, 
•Dorothy,  I  shall  not  live  to  see  thee  suffer!  This 
hour  has  broken  my  heart." 

Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  sound  of  the  advanc 
ing  crowds,  echoing  loud  and  distinctly  upon  the 
stillness  of  the  night.  Then  arose  hoarse  shouts 
and  calls,  shrill  cries  of  women  and  children,  and 
soon  the  people  swarmed  into  the  little  garden  and 
filled  the  street  beyond. 

Dorothy,  white  and  calm,  went  forth  to  meet 
them :  she  stood  in  the  doorway,  looking  quietly 
upon  the  groups  of  excited,  menacing  persons. 

"  Mistress  Went  worth,"  called  the  stern  voice  of 
the  beadle,  "  in  the  name  of  his  most  worshipful, 


290  DOROTHY   THE    PURITAN. 

the  governor,  we  do  arrest  thee  on  the  charge  of 
witchcraft.  Thou  hast  been  guilty  of  detestable 
acts  and  sorceries ;  thine  enemies  thou  hast  tort 
ured,  afflicted,  pined,  consumed,  wasted,  and  tor 
mented." 

Dorothy  stepped  forward.  "  I  will  go  with  thee, 
and  though  I  am  no  witch  and  have  wronged  but 
one,  for  that  offense  Providence  has  been  most 
kind,  in  that  I  may,  by  this  punishment,  case  a 
troubled  conscience." 

These  words  stilled  the  murmurs  of  the  throng, 
and  though  furious  glances  and  gestures  were  di 
rected  toward  the  fearless  girl,  they  uttered  aloud' 
no  denunciations. 

It  was  a  brilliant  night ;  the  gleam  of  the  moon 
penetrated  the  surroundings  for  a  considerable  dis 
tance,  serving  to  illuminate  the  scene,  and  defining 
even  objects  some  distance  from  the  house.  On 
the  outskirts  of  the  crowd  the  tall  figure  of  a  man 
suddenly  loomed  into  view.  Dorothy  instinctively 
turned  her  head  in  his  direction,  and  bent  her  gaze 
upon  him.  A  tremor  'passed  over  her,  and  she 
uttered  aloud  a  little  cry  of  almost  physical  pain. 
The  man  lifted  his  head  and  gazed  fixedly  upon  her, 
then  forced  his  way  through  the  throng  and  came 


THE    SCENE   AT   THE   JUDGE'S   HOUSE.       2QI 

close  to  her  side.  She  cowered  and  shrank  away 
from  him,  as  one  does  in  mortal  fear. 

"  Dorothy,"  he  whispered,  as  he  leaned  toward 
her,  "be  brave,  I  will  save  you;  be  calm."  That 
was  all.  He  was  gone. 

A  wailing  shriek  now  arose  from  among  the  ex 
pectant  people :  "  The  devil  seeks  to  aid  his  own, 
he  hath  sent  his  agents.  One  was  with  her  now — 
the  cavalier  who  did  whisper  to  her,  he  from  the 
court  of  the  wicked  Charles."  At  this  outburst 
the  crowd  began  to  utter  groans  and  cries.  "  Seize 
her,  ere  she  mount  into  the  air  and  escape  us,"  cried 
one. 

"  See  her  pale  face  and  eyes  of  fire !  She  doth 
torment  us !  Away  with  her,  away  with  this  fiend ! " 
cried  the  afflicted  children  in  chorus.  A  scene  of 
pandemonium  followed  these  cries.  The  girls  of 
the  magic  circle  groveled  on  the  ground  in  convul 
sions,  horrible  groans  issuing  from  their  frothing  lips. 

"  I  make  no  resistance,"  said  Dorothy  quietly  to 
her  jailers;  "see,  I  go  willingly  with  thee."  She 
held  out  her  hands  to  them.  "  Bind  me  with  thy 
cords;  I  am  thy  prisoner." 

"Ay,  bind  her,  bind  her!"  yelled  Elizabeth,  like 
a  maniac.  "  She  will  escape.  Already  I  see  a  host 


DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

of  demons  by  her  side.  To  the  prison  with  her! 
Quick,  quick,  to  the  prison,  ere  we  die  from  the 
spells  she  casts  upon  us!" 

"To  the  prison,  to  the  prison!"  came  from  the 
hundreds  of  frenzied  persons,  now  carried  away 
beyond  all  control. 

"  Dorothy,  Dorothy,"  wailed  Martha,  "  to  come  to 
this,  to  come  to  this !  She  is  so  young,  so  innocent. 
Have  ye  no  pity  ?  "  She  shook  her  fists  at  the  crowd 
and  hurled  fierce  epithets  at  the  girls  of  the  circle. 

The  jailers  now  bound  Dorothy's  wrists  together, 
and  stepping  one  on  each  side  of  her,  they  marched 
up  the  village  street  to  the  prison.  The  crowd  fol 
lowed,  hooting,  shouting,  and  throwing  sticks  and 
stones.  "  A  witch,  a  witch,  a  witch !  Hang  her, 
burn  her,  cast  her  forth!" 

When  Dorothy  reached  the  prison  door  she  saw 
her  husband  standing  beside  it.  He  stretched  out 
his  arms  across  the  door,  thus  barring  entrance. 
The  look  of  hopeless  misery  and  utter  despair  upon 
his  countenance  would  have  caused  the  most  unfeel 
ing  heart  to  move  in  pity. 

"  They  would  not  hear  me,"  he  gasped.  "  Till 
this  moment  I  have  labored  with  them.  My  God, 
what  have  I  done  that  this  should  come  upon  me ! 


THE    SCENE    AT   THE   JUDGE'S    HOUSE.       293 

Dorothy,  my  wife,  I  cannot  see  thee  enter  these 
prison  doors,  I  cannot!" 

The  jailers  drew  aside  respectfully ;  the  crowd 
was  awed.  Such  grief  as  this  won  at  least  their 
silence.  The  prisoner  did  not  raise  her  eyes,  though 
she  bent  toward  him,  saying,  "  Let  me  enter ;  close 
not  the  way  to  mine  atonement;  'tis  my  desire." 

"  She  is  guilty,  she  confesses!  Away  with  her!" 
shouted  the  infuriated  populace. 

She  turned  to  them.  "  I  confess  not  to  what 
thou  believest  of  me,"  she  said.  Then,  turning 
toward  her  husband,  she  knelt  down  before  him,  her 
fair  head  bowed  low  in  the  dust.  "  I  am  a  grievous 
sinner,  Alden ;  I  have  deceived  thee,  and  though  I 
am  no  witch,  I  have  erred.  I  go  to  repent." 

The  crowd  pushed  and  jostled  her  roughly.  She 
could  scarce  regain  her  feet.  "Stop  her  speech!" 
they  cried.  "  She  casts  a  spell  upon  her  husband." 

She  was  carried  into  the  prison,  and  the  heavy 
oaken  doors  were  closed  behind  her.  The  angry 
faces,  the  moonlight,  her  husband's  frantic  endeavors 
to  follow  her,  faded  from  her  sight,  into  a  mist  that 
deepened  and  deepened  until  it  became  a  great 
blackness  and  she  lay  unconscious  on  the  stone 
floor  of  her  cell. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

IN    PRISON. 

DOROTHY  had  been  in  prison  three  days.  Dur 
ing  that  time  she  had  seen  no  one  but  her  jailer, 
who  kept  a  close  and  constant  watch  upon  her.  He 
had  been  warned  by  the  authorities  that  some  of 
her  co-workers  might,  through  the  aid  of  their 
magic  arts,  gain  admittance  to  her  cell,  and  thus 
spirit  her  away,  perhaps  through  the  grated  win 
dow,  perhaps  through  the  keyhole,  or  possibly  down 
through  the  stone  floor,  thence  out  beneath  the 
earth,  to  the  sunlight  and  freedom  beyond.  She 
had  rested  upon  her  bed  of  coarse  straw  the  greater 
part  of  the  day  and  night,  sometimes  asleep,  some 
times  watching  with  wide-strained  eyes  the  rays  of 
light  that  came  at  certain  hours  through  the  small, 
high  window. 

Every  time  a  step  was  heard  upon  the  corridor 
without  she  started  and  raised  her  head  expectantly, 
only  to  let  it  fall  back  wearily  with  a  despondent 

294 


IN    PRISON.  295 

sigh.  She  knew  that  by  this  time  Elizabeth  had 
acquainted  her  husband  with  the  wretched  story, 
exaggerated,  no  doubt,  and  painted  in  colors  that 
would  display  her  in  the  light  of  a  false,  heartless 
intriguer. 

"  Yet,"  she  argued,  "  why  does  he  not  come,  if 
only  to  denounce  me?  Surely  he  will  hear  from 
mine  own  lips  my  vindication." 

It  was  a  damp,  rainy  day ;  the  fall  rains  were  be 
ginning  early.  The  cell  lay  almost  in  the  gloom  of 
night,  so  faint  was  the  little  glimmer  that  fell  from 
the  grated  pane.  Dorothy  had  fallen  into  a  troubled 
sleep.  In  her  sleep  she  dreamed  Alden  was  beside 
her,  and  so  vivid  was  the  dream  that  it  awoke  her. 
She  turned  her  head,  and  by  the  side  of  her  cot 
stood  her  husband.  She  recoiled  from  him  in  ab 
ject  terror.  Could  that  stern,  cold,  pitiless  gaze 
come  from  the  man  who  had  so  loved  her?  She 
started  to  her  feet,  and  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands  retreated  from  him,  her  frame  quivering  with 
the  misery  she  endured. 

He  followed  her,  and  dragged  her  hands  from 
her  face,  holding  them  firmly  in  his  strong  grasp. 
"  So  thou  wouldst  hide  thy  false  face,"  he  said. 

".  Alden,  Alden,  she  has  told  thee,  then.     Yet  let 


2Q6  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

me  speak  ere  thou  dost  wholly  condemn ;  it  is  but 
justice." 

"  Ay,  she  has  told  me.  I  believed  her  not  with 
out  proof.  I  sought  it ;  I  have  seen  those  men  who 
did  aid  in  thy  scheme.  Out  upon  thee  for  a  fair 
sorceress!  So  thou  hast  duped  me  well;  thy  nature 
is  full  deep." 

"  Thou  shalt  hear  me,  thou  shalt!  It  is  my  right! 
I  demand  it,  and  I  will  have  it,"  she  cried.  "  I 
have  not  wholly  wronged  thee.  It  was  to  keep 
that  which  I  valued  above  all  else,  thine  affection, 
that  I  did  deceive  thee,  for  the  sake  of  that  love 
that  once  was  mine.  Hear  me,  hear  me,  I  beseech 
thee!" 

He  looked  darkly  upon  her.  "Speak,"  he  said. 
"  I  hearken." 

She  then  told  him  all  the  story,  omitting  no  de 
tails.  At  its  close  he  laughed — a  bitter,  incredulous 
laugh.  "And  so  thy  voucher  is  a  witch,"  he  said 
slowly.  "  Thou  hast  chosen  a  valiant  witness ! 
Dost  thou  think  I  believe  thee?  No,  no,  no — a 
helpless  girl  like  thee  to  escape  Sir  Grenville  and 
his  tried  assistants!  And  so  thine  honor  hangs  on 
the  word  of  old  Goody  Trueman." 

She  crouched  at  his  feet,  her  head  bent  low  to 


IN    PRISON.  297 

the  stone  floor.  "As  I  stand  now  in  the  presence 
of  the  Almighty,  though  unseen  by  us,  I  swear  I 
tell  thee  the  truth.  Thou  must  believe  me,  thou 
must ;  then  mete  to  me  my  punishment,  I  will  not 
repine." 

"  I  believe  thee  not,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "  I  have  « 
it  within  me  now  to  kill  thee  and  send  thy  perjured 
soul  to  its  reward."  He  bent  over  her  as  she  lay 
upon  the  floor.  "  With  my  two  hands  I  could 
strangle  thee  as  thou  hast  strangled  all  good  within 
me." 

"  Kill  me,  then ;  I  take  it  from  thy  hands ;  it  is 
retribution.  Yet,  ere  I  go  from  thee,  look  once 
upon  me  in  forgiveness." 

"Away  from  me!"  he  said;  "  thy  touch  is  pollu 
tion."  He  thrust  her  from  him  as  she  tried  to  draw 
near  upon  her  knees.  "  I  believe  thee  not ;  I  will 
not  forgive  thee.  Thou  hast  made  me  what  I  am ; 
no  feeling  bides  within  me,  I  am  turning  to  stone ; 
thou  hast  been  the  sculptor,  thy  hand  hast  molded 
me.  How  dost  thou  like  thy  work?" 

"  I  have  no  redress  further,"  she  moaned ;  "  I  am 
indeed  left  desolate.  My  fate  draws  daily  nearer, 
and  I  wait  for  it  with  joy.  My  husband,  a  day  will 
come  when  thou  wilt  know  me  as  I  am — when  thou 


298  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

wilt  believe  and  say,  '  Dorothy,  I  forgive  thee;'  and 
I  will  hear  thy  voice,  though  I  be  in  another  world, 
for  the  love  that  is  between  us  is  sufficiently  strong 
to  reach  that  land  toward  which  my  feet  are  turned." 
She  hesitated  and  seemed,  addressing  some  inner 
self.  "  In  that  day  I  shall  come  to  thee ;  thou  wilt 
not  see  me,  yet  I  shall  be  near  and  comfort  thee  in 
thy  remorse." 

"  I  have  no  love  for  thee ;  thou  hast  killed  it.  I 
shall  feel  no  remorse."  He  turned  away  from  her. 
"  What  once  I  felt  for  thee  is  dead ;  no  medicine 
can  revive  the  departed.  Thou  hast  gone  out  of 
my  life  and  thy  memory  is  no  more." 

The  unimpassioned  voice  had  in  its  tones  no  ca 
dence  of  the  past,  no  echo  of  the  happy  days  gone 
by,  when  he  had  believed  in  her  and  loved  her. 
She  clung  to  him  in  desperation,  her  small  hands 
holding  like  a  vise  to  his  garments. 

"  Thou  surely  canst  not  leave  me  thus.  Dost 
know  that  in  this  world  we  shall  never  meet  again  ? 
I  beseech  thee,  Alden,  I  implore  thee — see,  I  kneel 
to  thee  as  some  poor  penitent  of  the  erring  flock." 

He  thrust  her  from  him  and  she  fell  heavily  to 
the  floor. 

"  Get  thee  from  me !      Can  I  believe  thee  when 


IN   PRISON.  299 

thou  hast  stood  beside  me  in  yonder  meeting-house 
to  become  my  wife  with  a  lie  upon  thy  lips  ? — when 
of  a  truth  I  deemed  thee  as  innocent  as  the  angels 
above." 

"  Ay,"  she  said,  "  that  is  what,  perchance,  thou 
didst  expect  for  thy  helpmate — an  angel — and  I  was 
but  a  woman,  a  faulty  one  at  that.  I  would  forgive 
thee  twice  as  much  for  the  love  I  bear  thee." 

He  turned  from  her  quickly  at  these  words.  "  I 
go  from  thee ;  if  thou  needst  spiritual  counsel,  Mr. 
Parris  will  attend  thee.  I  shall  see  thee  no  more." 

A  spasm  of  mental  agony  convulsed  her.  It  was  so 
great  that  she  uttered  a  low  moan,  as  in  bodily  pain. 

"  And  thou — thou — wilt  leave  me  thus  to  die, 
unloved,  forgotten,  desolate,  hopeless!  I  tell  thee, 
Alden,  when  reflection  comes  to  thee  thou  wilt 
regret  this  day.  Thou  hast  made  thyself  greater 
than  thy  God,  who  forgives  all  sinners  that  repent 
in  humble  sincerity  as  I  do." 

He  moved  to  the  door  of  the  cell,  her  eyes  fol 
lowing  him  like  those  of  some  hunted  animal  when 
the  weary  chase  is  over  and  life  is  ebbing  fast.  She 
started  forward  when  he  appeared  to  hesitate  an 
instant  on  the  threshold,  but  he  did  not  turn  to 
encounter  her  wistful,  pleading  gaze. 


300  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

"  Farewell,"  she  said  softly,  "  farewell."  He 
heeded  her  not,  did  not  turn  his  head. 

As  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the  door  of  the  cell  she 
rushed  across  the  floor,  threw  her  arms  about  his 
neck  and  kissed  him.  "  Thou  shalt  give  it  back  to 
me  in  Paradise,"  she  murmured,  then  slipped  down 
upon  the  floor  and  bowed  her  head  in  her  hands. 

She  listened  intently  until  the  sound  of  his  foot 
steps  had  died  away  in  the  stone  corridor,  then 
crouching  lower  remained  motionless,  unheeding, 
her  mind  filled  with  confused,  meaningless  thoughts 
that  crossed  and  recrossed  each  other  with  the 
rapidity  of  lightning,  conjuring  pictures  of  hopeless 
despair.  How  long  she  remained  in  this  position 
she  did  not  know.  Time  passed  unheeded,  and  she 
noticed  no  outward  things. 

Suddenly,  though  she  had  heard  no  steps  or  the 
gentle  opening  of  the  door,  a  hand  was  placed  upon 
her  bowed  head,  and  a  well-remembered  voice  said, 
"  Dorothy,  look  up,  look  up ;  a  friend  is  near,  one 
powerful  to  aid." 

Had  she  slept  and  died  while  sleeping?  Was 
this  another  sphere?  And  this  voice — whence 
came  it?  She  raised  her  head.  The  gray  light 
from  the  small,  grated  window  revealed  Sir  Gren- 


IN    PRISON.  301 

ville  standing  by  her  side.  She  arose  slowly  and 
with  evident  difficulty  from  her  low  position,  and 
stepping  to  the  center  of  the  small  cell,  she  crossed 
her  arms  upon  her  breast  and  eyed  him  defiantly. 

"  So  thou  hast  come  to  gloat  over  thy  work ! 
Well,  what  dost  thou  think?  Hast  ever  beheld 
wretchedness  such  as  mine?  If  thou  hast  desired 
revenge  for  the  trick  I  played  thee,  thou  hast  it  in 
full  measure." 

He  gazed  silently  and  reproachfully  upon  her. 
The  utter  abandon  of  her  despair  was  written  upon 
her  countenance,  and  in  her  frenzied  attitude  it 
appalled  him  and  caused  the  deepest  pangs  of  regret 
to  assail  his  selfish  nature.  Her  sweet  face  had  lost 
its  childish,  innocent  expression,  but  beauty  such  as 
hers  increases  with  experience,  be  it  of  joy  or  sorrow. 

"I  have  not  come  to  taunt,"  he  said;  "far  be  it 
from  me  to  add  one  pang  to  sorrows  such  as  yours. 
I  come  to  save,  to  help,  to  protect."  He  spoke 
excitedly,  drawing  nearer  and  whispering  close  to 
her  ear,  "  In  Salem  harbor  there  is  a  merchantman 
vessel;  it  lies  at  anchor  beyond  the  bar.  I  "know 
the  captain  well ;  he  is  in  my  debt ;  he  awaits  my 
commands.  I  have  gold — much  gold ;  it  is  all- 
powerful.  I  have  bribed  the  jailers  in  order  to 


302  DOROTHY   THE    PURITAN. 

obtain  this  interview,  and  if  I  pay  them  well  these 
craven  cowards  will  do  my  bidding.  Do  you  com 
prehend  my  words,  Dorothy?" 

"  No,"  she  said ;  "  what  wouldst  thou  have  me 
do?" 

"  I  would  have  you  go  with  me  ;  I  can  save  you." 

"Whither?"  she  gasped  ;  "whither?" 

"  To  some  sunny  isle  beyond  the  seas ;  to  the 
shores  of  Spain,  perchance,  or  to  that  fair  city  of 
Venice,  or,  if  your  choice  be  different,  we  can 
wander  on  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean.  But 
away,  away  from  this  land  of  bleak  snows  and  gales 
and  heartless  humanity." 

"With  thee,  with  thee?"  she  murmured,  her 
eyes  shining  with  a  radiant  glow  that  appeared 
almost  unearthly. 

"  Yes,  with  me.  I  love  you  ;  I  will  be  to  you  a 
slave,  a  worshiper  forever.  I  will  bring  the  light  of 
peace  and  joy  again  into  your  life.  I  will  be  all  in 
all  to  you.  That  hated  bond  in  England  has  been 
severed  by  death.  I  am  free — as  you  will  be  free." 

"And  if  I  do  this  thing,"  she  said  slowly,  as 
though  meditating,  "  I  gain  life,  freedom,  and  much 
that  this  world  can  offer." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  cried,  "  all  this,  and  more — you 


IN    PRISON.  303 

gain  happiness.  In  time  you  will  forget  this  hated 
spot,  and  all  will  be  as  a  fearful  dream  that  has 
passed." 

"  And  if  I  refuse  this  gift  of  thine,"  she  continued 
in  the  same  low,  monotonous  tone,  "  I  remain  here 
in  this  prison  for  a  little  while,  then  I  go  hence  to 
meet  my  fate  at  the  hands  of  man  on  yonder  hill." 
She  pointed  as  she  spoke  toward  the  window,  from 
which  they  could  see  the  fain  falling  heavily,  and 
some  early  autumn  leaves,  driven  by  the  gale,  whirl 
ing  past. 

"That  fate  is  surely  yours,"  he  said.  "Your 
husband  has  deserted  you ;  nothing  is  left  save 
desolation  and  an  ignominious  death." 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  replied.  "  Never 
theless,  Sir  Grenville,  I  choose  the  latter  course. 
Did  I  go  with  thee,  I  should  but  go  to  save  my 
miserable  life,  which  is  not  worth  the  saving.  I 
have  deceived  and  I  have  suffered,  yet  now,  thank 
God!  I  can  make  atonement.  My  life  is  worthless 
to  me;  I  offer  it  as  the  price  of  my  misdeeds." 

"You  are  crazed,"  he  cried;  "this  shall  not  be. 
A  morbid  exaggeration  of  your  fault  has  caused  this 
recklessness.  Do  you  realize  your  approaching  fate  ? 
Surely  not.  And  the  one  that  should  forgive  and 


304  DOROTHY   THE   PURITAN. 

protect  you  is  your  enemy.  Can  you  still  cling  to 
him  who  scorns  you  ?  " 

"  Speak  not  of  him,"  she  said  solemnly.  "  I 
wronged  him,  I  wronged  him.  I  lied  to  him." 

"  I  will  not  take  your  decision.  Even  against 
your  will  I  will  save  you.  Oh,  that  some  medicine 
possessed  the  power  to  still  your  conscience !  gladly 
would  I  procure  it." 

"  There  is  none ;  urge  me  no  further,  for  in  this 
decision  I  am  strong.  Go  thy  way ;  if  thou  canst, 
forget  me.  In  a  few  short  days  I  shall  have  gone 
to  my  last  account.  Yet  let  me  warn  thee — meet 
not  my  husband.  In  his  present  state  he  is  as  one 
enraged,  and  without  control.  He  would  murder 
thee." 

"  Perchance,"  he  replied  scornfully,  "  or  I  him. 
So  you  have  made  your  choice?" 

"Yes,  for  all  time." 

"  Then  I  go  from  you,  but,  Dorothy,  I  shall  still 
work  to  save  you."  A  tear  glistened  in  his  eye. 
"  Even  though  you  flaunt  my  efforts,  I  cannot  see 
you  die,  I  cannot;  the  thought  unmans  me.  Though 
my  selfish  love  has  been  your  dire  destruction,  yet 
that  love  was  full  deep  and  strong.  Think — think ; 
once  again,  let  me  save  you,  and  I  ask  no  price." 


IN    PRISON.  305 

"  I  have  made  my  final  decision ;  have  I  not  told 
thee?"  she  said  firmly.  "Go — go;  I  desire  soli 
tude,  I  would  pray." 

He  walked  toward  the  door  of  the  cell,  then 
turned  and  held  out  his  arms,  his  handsome  face 
pale  with  agony.  "  I  have  brought  you  to  this,  I 

have  brought  you  to  this!  Forgive — forgive " 

his  voice  died  in  his  throat. 

She  looked  kindly  upon  him.  "  I  forgive  thee ; 
thou  wilt  suffer  longer  than  I." 

"  Ay,  truth  speaks  then  ;  I  shall  surfer  while  I  live 
— and  remember." 

"  Thou  canst  take  one  grain  of  comfort  to  thyself, 
Sir  Grenvilln  in  that  by  this  opportunity  thou  hast 
given  me  to-day  thou  hast  made  mine  atonement 
more  complete." 

At  this  instant  the  jailer  opened  the  iron  door. 
"Time  is  up,  my  lord,"  he  said. 

Sir  Grenville  looked  back  once  upon  the  slight 
figure  standing  erect  in  the  gloomy  cell,  and  in  that 
look  was  the  reverence  one  feels  for  a  saint,  or  for 
the  peace  of  a  dead  friend.  After  his  departure  the 
hapless  prisoner  fell  upon  her  knees  below  the  high 
window,  from  which  gleamed  now  but  a  tiny  shaft 
of  light,  for  the  gray  day  was  drawing  near  its  close. 


306  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN". 

As  she  looked  upward  and  prayed,  she  caught 
glimpses  of  swift-flying  clouds.  All  the  clinging 
desire  of  earth  departed  from  her.  To  her  imagina 
tion  the  narrow  walls  of  her  cell  opened  wide,  and 
she  stood  without  them,  in  the  unseen  glory  of  a 
world  where  there  are  no  mistakes,  no  farewells, 
no  tears.  Care  and  conflict  were  no  more,  a  gentk 
peace  was  within  her,  her  soul  was  alone  with  her 
God. 

The  jailer,  passing,  glanced  into  her  cell,  and  the 
glow  from  the  lantern  he  carried  fell  across  her 
features,  revealing  so  unearthly  and  serene  an  ex 
pression  that  his  heart  scarce  beat  for  terror  of  the 
supernatural.  • 

"  Surely  she  is  not  of  common  clay,"  he  whispered. 
"  If  a  witch,  why  that  holy  peace  ?  To  what  Deity 
does  she  pray  that  He  helps  her  so  greatly  in  this 
hour?" 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

THE   TRIAL. 

WHEN  Martha  became  acqainted  with  the  secret 
so  long  guarded  by  Dorothy  she  was  shocked  and 
pained,  but  she  did  not  falter  in  her  allegiance. 
Later,  when  she  heard  from  Wentworth's  lips  the 
second  version  of  the  affair  which  Dorothy  had 
intrusted  to  her  husband,  she  believed  it,  even 
when  he  called  it  a  "parcel  of  lies." 

"Dost  thou  think,"  he  demanded,  "that  I  can 
credit  her  story?  It  is  not  in  the  possibilities  of 
man  that  she  could  have  escaped  that  night  in  the 
forest.  No,  she  fled  with  this  arch-traitor — whither, 
I  know  not.  Can  I  accept  the  word  of  that  accursed 
creature,  the  witch  Trueman?  Out  of  this  web  of 
deceit  how  am  I  to  glean  the  truth?" 

"  I  know  not,  I  know  not,"  said  Martha  helplessly. 
"  Yet  this  I  do  know :  I  have  ever  loved  the  child, 
and  for  that  love's  sake  I  do  forgive  her  now. 
And  thou  knowest  well,  Alden  Went  worth, 'that  at 
the  first  she  told  thee  she  did  not  love  thee ;  there 

307 


308  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

was  no  deceit  then.  Then  she  met  this  handsome, 
wicked  fellow,  and  foolish-like  she  followed  him. 
I  see  it  all.  Then  for  love  of  thee  she  kept  the 
secret  of  her  flight  and  escape  from  him.  I  believe 
her,  Alden,  I  believe  her;  she  thought  to  make  a 
grand  marriage,  poor  little  Dorothy!" 

"  I  never  shall  forgive  her,"  he  cried  fiercely.  "  I 
leave  her  to  her  fate." 

Martha  looked  curiously  upon  him,  then  said : 
"And  this  is  the  fruit  of  thy  religion!  Surely  the 
teachings  of  thy  creed  are  cruel.  What  says  Holy 
Writ  ?  Art  thou  not  a  believer  in  the  Word  of 
God?" 

He  started  as  if  stung  by  her  words.  "Attack 
not  my  creed  ;  it  is  the  man  who  has  been  wronged." 

"  Alden,  Alden,  thou  hast  made  a  grave  mistake. 
Take  heed ;  repent  and  forgive  ere  it  be  too  late 
and  thy  future  life  be  imbittered  by  this  error." 

"The  consequences  be  upon  my  head,"  he  cried. 
"  I  shall  not  forgive  her." 

Some  three  days  after  Sir  Grenville's  visit  to 
Dorothy  in  her  cell  she  was  brought  to  trial  to 
answer  the  charge  of  witchcraft.  Eight  prisoners 
had  already  been  disposed  of  by  the  judges,  and 
had  then  been  taken  back  to  their  cells.  Dorothy 


THE   TRIAL.  309 

was  the  last  culprit  brought  into  court.  When  taken 
from  the  darkness  of  her  prison  quarters,  the  sun 
shine  of  the  brilliant  day  caused  her  to  blink  in  the 
bright  light.  Her  steps  faltered  from  weakness,  her 
whole  frame  trembled  as  she  advanced,  supported 
between  two  powerful  keepers. 

Owing  to  the  great  throng  attracted  thither  by 
the  unusual  trial  of  the  wife  of  a  judge  for  sorcery, 
the  court  had  adjourned  from  the  "  ordinary "  to 
the  meeting-house.  The  place  was  filled  with 
excited  spectators,  who  jostled  and  pushed  each 
other  roughly.  Before  the  pulpit  a  raised  platform 
had  been  built,  upon  which  were  seated  the  judges, 
with  their  secretaries.  Many  distinguished  person 
ages  occupied  chairs  upon  this  raised  dais;  the  poor 
wretches  who  were  unfortunate  enough  to  be  called 
before  this  bar  for  justice  had  generally  been  con 
demned  previously  by  public  sentiment.  They  had 
no  counsel,  and  in  many  cases  no  friends,  people 
being  afraid  to  openly  espouse  the  cause  of  one 
against  whom  public  indignation  had  been  turned. 

When  Dorothy  entered  the  court-room,  she  raised 
her  eyes  wistfully,  as  if  seeking  some  friend,  but 
quickly  dropped  them  and  trembled  perceptibly  as 
she  encountered  the  stony  glances  of  her  one-time 


310  DOROTHY   THE    PURITAN. 

admirers  and  neighbors.  She  walked  slowly,  lean 
ing  heavily  against  the  jailers  who  supported  her. 
She  was  exhausted  from  insufficient  food  and  want 
of  sleep.  She  was  placed  about  eight  feet  from  the 
judges,  and  below  the  platform  upon  which  they 
were  seated. 

Between  her  and  the  judges,  upon  the  same  level 
with  herself,  were  ranged  the  accusing  girls.  She 
was  peremptorily  directed  to  stand  erect  and  keep 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  magistrates.  Moreover,  an 
officer  was  commanded  to  hold  her  hands  lest  she 
should  afflict  some  one  present.  Then  the  judges 
held  a  rigid  examination,  demanding  her  reasons  for 
having  sold  herself  to  Satan,  also  her  mode  of  con 
ducting  the  direful  torments  she  had  brought  upon 
these  poor,  unhappy  girls  who  suffered  by  her 
wickedness. 

"  I  am  no  witch,"  said  Dorothy  calmly,  not 
understanding  half  the  confusing  questions  ad 
dressed  to  her,  simply  denying  her  guilt  with  a 
grave  shake  of  her  head. 

"  Say  the  Lord's  Prayer,"  commanded  the  judge 
sternly,  this  being  considered  one  of  the  important 
tests  of  the  guilt  of  the  witches.  Dorothy  had 
hardly  commenced  the  first  words  of  the  prayer 


THE   TRIAL.  311 

before  the  girls  began  to  fall  to  the  floor  in  spasms. 
She  ceased,  her  words  became  confused,  and  she 
stopped  abruptly. 

"  She  cannot  say  it!"  they  shrieked.  "  She  can 
not  pray!  She  is  a  witch,  she  has  sold  herself!" 

Presently  all  the  girls  became  dumb,  staring  fix 
edly  upon  the  prisoner,  their  mouths  twitching,  their 
fingers  pointed  at  Dorothy's  white,  haggard  face. 
Then  one  spoke  in  a  high,  shrill  voice :  "  I  see  the 
evil  eye  upon  her!  The  black  man  is  looking  even 
now  over  her  shoulder !  She  is  one  of  them,  she  is 
one  of  them!  See  the  yellow-bird  perched  upon 
her  hair!" 

These  cries,  uttered  in  a  loud,  groaning  chorus, 
were  certainly  sufficient  to  overcome  the  nerves  of 
the  weakened  girl.  She  endeavored  again  to  repeat 
the  words  of  the  prayer,  but  her  voice  fell  and  broke 
feebly.  "  I  have  done  naught,  your  honors ;  I  have 
done  no  harm,"  she  pleaded.  But  her  words  were 
so  low  they  were  scarcely  heard. 

The  presiding  judge  paid  no  attention  to  this 
trembling  little  protest.  Turning  to  the  circle,  he 
said,  "  Which  among  you  has  the  courage  to  approach 
the  prisoner  at  the  bar  and  touch  her?  " 

They  all  started  forward,  but  retreated  immedi- 


312  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

ately  in  terror,  saying  they  dared  not,  she  had  hosts 
of  demons  flying  about  to  destroy  them.  The  judge 
looked  alarmed  at  this  communication,  and  stared 
angrily  at  the  prisoner,  who  gazed  gently  at  him, 
her  blue  eyes  suffused  with  tears. 

"  At  what  date  was  thy  name  signed  in  the  Black 
Book?"  he  demanded. 

"  I  have  signed  no  book.  I  am  not  guilty  of 
witchcraft ;  I  know  none  of  its  practices.  I  am 
innocent  of  the  charges  brought  against  me." 

"  She  does  know,  she  does !  She  is  not  inno 
cent!"  shouted  Elizabeth.  "  She  has  dug  up  moldy 
things  from  the  churchyard — hideous  secrets  used 
for  our  undoing.  She  deals  in  all  charms  and  spells  ; 
she  draws  men's  souls  to  destruction.  I  suffer,  I 
burn,  I  am  tortured  in  her  presence!" 

"  Hold  her  hands  more  firmly,  jailer,"  called  the 
judge,  "lest  she  escape  us." 

"  She  has  cast  a  spell  even  now  upon  the  magis 
trates,"  again  screamed  Elizabeth.  "A  demon  sits 
upon  the  platform  by  Mr.  Parris." 

Mr.  Parris  rose  hastily,  shook  his  garments,  and 
began  cleaving  the  air  with  his  cane. 

"  He  has  fled  from  thee,"  said  Elizabeth.  "Thou 
art  a  righteous  man — he  has  no  power  over  thee," 
and  Mr.  Parris  sat  down  more  at  his  ease. 


THE    TRIAL.  313 

The  case  then  proceeded,  interrupted  presently 
by  the  announcement  that  a  great  bird  was  sitting 
aloft  on  the  beam.  At  this,  all  the  girls  fell  to  the 
floor  screaming,  and  apparently  in  convulsions. 

"Take  her  away,  she  tortures  us,  take  her  away! 
We  cannot  live  in  her  presence!" 

Dorothy  shook  as  one  in  violent  chills,  the  horror 
and  confusion  of  the  scene  acting  upon  her  over 
wrought  nerves  with  such  violence  that  it  seemed 
to  her  she  would  have  fallen  dead  to  the  floor. 

"  Remove  the  prisoner,"  commanded  the  judge 
in  a  loud,  harsh  voice.  "  Of  a  surety  she  is  a  witch  ; 
we  need  no  added  proof.  Put  irons  upon  her  in 
her  cell,  let  the  jailer  guard  her  constantly." 

At  these  words  Dorothy  raised  her  head  proudly. 
"  I  am  no  witch,  honored  sir;  these  girls  do  dissem 
ble,  and  ye  have  committed  a  grievous  error.  Nev 
ertheless,  I  accept  what  fate  has  ordained,  I  rebel 
not ;  I  accept  it  as  my  due  for  my  many  sins,  and 
do  most  earnestly  believe  that  through  the  mercy 
of  God  this  punishment  will  be  mine  atonement." 

"  She  confesses,  she  confesses!"  shrieked  her  tor 
mentors. 

"I  confess  nothing;  I  deny  that  I  am  what  ye 
say.  I  am  as  guiltless  of  the  acts  of  witchcraft  as 
ye  say  ye  are." 


314  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

"  Remove  her !  She  hath  sent  her  agents  to 
choke  us,  to  stab  us!  Away  with  her!" 

Dorothy  did  not  speak  again.  Amidst  the  gen 
eral  clamor  she  was  escorted  back  to  her  cell, 
through  the  densely  packed  throng  of  eager,  solemn 
spectators.  She  was  but  dimly  conscious  of  her 
surroundings,  until  some  one  among  the  crowd 
leaned  forward  and  wiped  the  falling  tears  from  her 
face.  She  glanced  up  gratefully,  to  encounter  the 
troubled,  sympathetic  eyes  of  Martha.  The  jailer 
thrust  the  ministering  hand  aside,  and  the  dazed  girl 
was  led  back  to  the  darkness  of  her  cell. 

An  hour  or  so  following  the  trial,  a  group  stood 
before  the  meeting-house  door,  talking  eagerly. 

"  Dost  thou  think  Went  worth  believes  her  guilty  ?  " 
said  a  large  man,  a  farmer  from  the  district,  who  had 
attended  the  day's  proceedings. 

"  Of  a  certainty.  He  plead  not  in  her  defense ; 
he  was  absent  from  the  meeting-house.  They  do 
say  he  has  not  entered  her  cell  save  once,  and  that 
he  walks  ever  restless  upon  the  streets  both  day  and 
night.  He  speaks  to  no  one,  and  if  one  does  address 
him,  he  answers  him  not." 

"  Truly  he  is  much  to  be  pitied,"  said  a  stout 
woman,  a  matron  from  the  village.  "Ah,  that  was 


THE   TRIAL.  315 

a  foolish  marriage.  She  was  ever  a  wild,  idle 
thing." 

"Will  they  hang  her?"  inquired  a  young  girl  in 
an  awestruck  whisper. 

"  They  will,  surely  ;  the  evidence  was  most  dam 
aging." 

"  She  is  so  fair  and  sweet,"  said  the  girl  sadly. 
"  She  was  ever  kind  to  me." 

"  Heaven  bless  thee  for  those  words,"  said  a  voice, 
and  Martha  joined  the  group.  "  If  they  do  hang 
her,"  she  exclaimed,  looking  fiercely  around  upon 
the  now  silenced  assemblage,  "  they  commit  a  mur 
der!  I  say  it  without  fear,  and  those  fiends  that 
do  accuse  her  will  burn  in  everlasting  fire." 

"  Hush,  hush,  here  comes  Elizabeth,"  spoke  some 
voices  in  an  awed  whisper. 

"What  care  I  for  that  bloodthirsty  girl?"  She 
raised  her  voice,  and  casting  her  bloodshot  eyes 
upon  the  sinister  but  handsome  face  that  now  con 
fronted  her,  she  continued :  "  The  day  will  come 
when  thy  power  will  be  gone,  and  then  I  wish  thee 
a  long  life  with  thy  conscience.  I  trow  it  will  cut 
deeper  than  the  hangman's  rope." 

Elizabeth  passed  by  unheeding,  the  group  gazing 
after  her  with  respectful  deference.  Elizabeth  had 


316  DOROTHY   THE    PURITAN. 

not  spoken  of  what  she  knew  in  regard  to  Dorothy's 
sad  story,  save  to  Wentworth  and  Martha.  She 
had  two  reasons  for  this  secrecy :  first,  she  wished 
to  establish  a  tacit  bond  between  herself  and  Went 
worth,  that  might  prove  the  nucleus  of  her  future 
plans ;  secondly,  she  was  astute  enough  to  know 
that  if  she  brought  forward  any  personal  motive  for 
revenge,  it  would  be  likely  to  tell  in  favor  of  the 
suspected  one. 

By  a  strange  coincidence,  the  cell  in  which  Goody 
Trueman  had  been  confined,  and  in  which  she  now 
lay,  suffering  from  a  fatal  disease,  was  next  to  that 
in  which  Dorothy  awaited  the  last  sentence  of  the 
court,  the  day  decreed  for  her  execution.  The  jailer 
had  acquainted  Dorothy  with  the  fact  of  Goody's 
near  abode,  she  having  inquired  who  moaned  and 
wept  continuously  so  near  her.  The  jailer,  who  had 
more  compassion  than  one  might  expect  in  a  person 
whose  life  is  passed  amidst  prison  scenes,  expressed 
sympathy,  although  in  guarded  terms,  for  the  old 
woman.  When  Dorothy  begged  for  admittance  to 
the  presence  of  the  sufferer,  he  consented. 

Though  Dorothy  wore  irons  upon  her  wrists  and 
ankles,  she  had  not  been  shackled  to  the  floor,  as 
was  the  case  in  many  instances.  When  admitted  to 


THE   TRIAL.  317 

the  adjoining  cell,  which  was  even  smaller,  darker, 
and  closer  than  her  own,  Dorothy  stood  a  moment 

irresolute,  hoping  that  Goody  would  recognize  her 

» 

before  she  spoke,  dreading  the  possible  shock  to  the 
already  enfeebled  heart  and  body.  As  Goody  did 
not  move  or  speak,  Dorothy  went  up  to  the  cot,  her 
chains  clanking  as  she  advanced.  "  Goody,  Goody," 
she  said,  "  I  have  come  to  speak  with  thee ;  dost 
know  me?  " 

The  dim  eyes  looked  up.  "Ay,  I  know  thee," 
she  replied  feebly.  "  Whence  comest  thou  ?  Not 
condemned,  surely  not  condemned!" 

"  Only  too  true  are  thy  words :  I  am  a  condemned 
witch.  Yet  now  I  can  tell  thee  all  my  story,  for  I 
have  naught  to  gain  in  this  world,  yet  much,  I  trust, 
in  another." 

So,  leaning  her  face  against  the  withered  hand 
that  lay  upon  the  side  of  the  cot,  she  told  all.  At 
the  conclusion  she  paused  an  instant,  then  contin 
ued  :  "  I  ask  but  one  favor  of  thee :  if  my  husband 
comes  to  thee  and  speaks  of  me,  that  thou  wilt  plead 
for  me,  Goody.  Thou  wilt?  " 

"  And  so  my  little  wild  wood-blossom  has  with 
ered  at  the  first  fierce  touch  of  the  sun !  Ay,  my 
child,  and  those  hot  rays  which  scorched  thee  were 


3l8  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

fed  by  thy  deceit.  Ah  well,  the  aged  cannot  always 
guide  the  young." 

"  No,  no,  Goody,  yet  reproach  me  not." 

"  No,  surely  I  will  not,  and  if  thy  husband  comes 
to  me  I  will  plead,  though  it  were  with  my  dying 
breath,  for  thee.  But  I  despair,  I  hope  not.  I  am 
an  outcast;  my  word  is  hooted  and  despised." 

"  I  know,  I  know ;  and  yet  when  one  is  drowning 
one  clings  to  even  the  frailest  bark  for  help.  Thou 
art  good;  perchance  some  truth  in  thy  speech  might 
convince  him." 

"If  the  chance  comes  to  me,  I  will,  I  will,  my 
child." 

So  Dorothy  crept  back  to  her  cell,  and  sat  quietly 
in  the  dark,  repeating  over  and  over  again,  in  low 
tones,  portions  of  the  Psalms  which  she  had  sung  so 
often  to  the  droning,  dragging  tunes  beloved  by  the 
Puritans,  as  she  stood,  in  the  days  now  gone  forever, 
within  the  walls  of  the  meeting-house. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

ON     GALLOWS     HILL. 

ALDEN    WENTWORTH     was    indeed    a    most 

* 

wretched  man ;  the  dream  of  peace  and  happiness 
which  had  been  his  was  gone  forever.  In  its  stead 
stalked  the  specters  of  buried  hopes,  dead  desires, 
and  shattered  faith.  The  deadly  poison  of  suspicion 
was  working  within  him.  All  Dorothy's  acts  and 
words  tended  but  to  exaggerate  his  belief  in  her 
guilt.  Though  he  longed  to  believe  her  story,  yet 
viewing  them  in  the  light  of  subsequent  events,  he 
could  not.  No,  she  had  led  him  on  deliberately, 
then  duped  and  fooled  him.  She  had  lied  to  him 
once,  she  would  lie  again.  Much  was  at  stake — her 
life — and  she  was  young. 

Over  and  over  he  said  to  himself,  with  clenched 
fist  and  furrowed  brow,  "  I  cannot  trust  her;  she  is 
false.  Where  she  was  those  four  months  I  know 
not,  yet  this  I  do  know  :  the  truth  is  not  in  her, 
she  has  schemed  full  well,  and  I  am  her  wretched 
dupe." 

319 


320  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

Though  Martha  had  endeavored  by  every  means 
in  her  power  to  gain  admittance  to  the  prison,  she 
had  not  been  successful.  This  was  partly  owing  to 
her  avowed  disapproval  of  the  acts  of  her  superiors, 
partly  for  fear  that  she  might  achieve  some  method 
of  escape  for  Dorothy. 

Martha  had  already  come  under  the  eye  of  the 
avenging  circle,  and  menacing  glances  followed  her 
whenever  she  appeared  upon  the  streets.  The 
bright  September  days  passed  rapidly.  Nature 
matured  her  gifts  to  man ;  the  fruits  of  the  full 
orchards  were  waiting  to  be  garnered  into  the  great 
barns  and  outbuildings  of  the  Salem  farms.  No 
heed  was  taken  of  the  rich  and  profitable  harvest, 
for  the  decree  had  gone  forth  that  on  the  22d  of 
September  the  last  of  the  convicted  witches  should 
pay  the  penalty  of  the  law.  In  the  present  excite 
ment  the  people  had  forgotten  their  daily  tasks,  had 
set  aside  the  natural  course  of  their  quiet  lives,  to 
take  part  in  the  general  calamity. 

When  the  jailer  brought  the  final  decision  of  the 
court  to  Dorothy  she  clasped  her  hands,  from  which 
the  irons  had  been  removed,  saying,  "  I  have  waited 
for  some  help  from  my  husband ;  since  it  comes  not, 
I  ask  for  nothing.  I  have  no  requests;  I  will  be 


ON   GALLOWS    HILL.  321 

ready  when  thou  shalt  come  for  me ;  I  will  make  no 
resistance." 

The  eight  unfortunate  victims  of  that  day  were 
hanged  some  hours  previous  to  the  time  set  aside 
for  Dorothy's  execution.  It  was  growing  late  in 
the  afternoon  when  they  entered  her  cell  to  conduct 
her  to  the  cart  in  attendance,  that  was  stationed  on 
the  street  without.  She  did  not  murmur,  but  stood 
calm  and  silent,  her  lips  moving  in  prayer.  Only 
once  she  spoke,  when  standing  beside  the  cart,  the 
eager  throngs  pressing  near  her ;  she  looked  up 
and  said  sadly : 

"  I  ween  I  have  no  friends ;  yet  once  I  was  well 
beloved  in  Salem.  Has  every  one  forgotten  me?  " 

At  these  words  a  woman  in  the  crowd  raised  her 
voice  and  called  loudly,  "  Thou  hast  one  friend, 
Dorothy — thy  Aunt  Martha." 

"  Hush,"  commanded  an  official,  "  be  silent.  I 
will  place  in  pillory  all  offenders  against  the  dignity 
of  this  proceeding.  Here  come  the  magistrates — 
step  back,  step  back!" 

The  procession  was  then  formed.  Dorothy,  seated 
upon  the  rough  board  placed  across  the  springless 
cart,  was  surrounded  by  officials  and  dignitaries. 
Some  rode  on  horseback  in  advance  of  her,  some  on 


322  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

either  side.  The  magic  circle  walked  not  far  from 
the  side  of  the  vehicle,  anxious  to  witness  the  last 
hours  of  their  victim.  By  their  absurd  antics  they 
intensified  the  excitement,  which  already  ran  fever 
high.  Elizabeth  with  a  swinging  gait  strode  ahead 
of  her  companions,  looking  backward  now  and  then 
to  gaze  upon  the  bowed  figure  in  the  cart,  swaying 
with  every  motion  of  the  wretched  vehicle  as  it 
jolted  clumsily  over  the  stones  and  uneven  surface 
of  the  road.  The  stern- visaged  people  walked  stol 
idly  forward,  speaking  but  seldom,  and  then  in 
monosyllables. 

At  the  head  of  the  procession,  clad  in  rich  trap 
pings,  rode  the  chief  magistrates  and  high  officials 
with  many  eminent  personages.  Prominent  among 
them  was  Cotton  Mather,  who  sat  his  horse  well,  his 
handsome  face  set  and  cold  with  a  fanaticism  none 
possessed  to  a  greater  degree  than  he. 

"  Truly,  my  friend,"  he  said,  turning  toward 
Judge  Stoughton,  who  rode  beside  him,  "  this  is  a 
most  gracious  day  for  the  world  ;  eight  lost  wretches 
have  we  dispatched  to  their  deserts,  and  now  one 
more  " — he  turned  in  his  saddle  at  these  words,  to 
glance  at  the  last  victim — "  who,  judging  by  her 


ON   GALLOWS   HILL.  323 

countenance,  should  be  as  good  as  the  angels. 
Truly  Satan  loves  to  dwell  in  a  fair  domicile." 

"  Well  said,  well  said,"  replied  Judge  Stoughton. 
"  We  will  at  this  rate  soon  rid  the  land  of  these  imps 
of  iniquity.  Yet  my  heart  misgives  me  for  the  san 
ity  of  Wentworth.  He  neither  speaks  nor  sleeps. 
This  child- wife  of  his  has  surely  wrecked  him." 

"  He  will  recover,"  answered  the  wise  Cotton. 
"  He  doeth  a  good  deed  ;  the  Lord  will  reward  him." 
He  coughed  piously,  and  crossed  his  hands,  as  though 
in  prayer.  "  He  has  not  rebelled  once  at  the  decree 
of  the  court ;  of  a  certainty  he  believes  her  a  witch, 
and  drowns  his  affection  for  the  good  of  mankind. 
A  most  exemplary  man  is  Wentworth." 

The  soft,  warm  September  sun  shone  upon  the 
curly  locks  that  fell  from  beneath  Dorothy's  cap ;  it 
glistened  around  her  sweet  face  like  a  nimbus  of 
gold.  Her  hands  were  confined  behind  her  back. 
Her  eyes  were  downcast,  the  long  lashes  resting 
upon  her  cheeks  in  a  dark  circle,  causing  the  white 
ness  of  her  face  to  appear  the  more  startling.  She 
spoke  not  to  those  near  the  cart ;  she  seemed  apart 
from  them,  already  in  another  sphere. 

As   the   dreadful  journey  proceeded,  she   would 


324  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

raise  her  eyes  at  intervals  and  glance  wistfully  at 
the  old  familiar  scenes  that  came  under  her  gaze. 
The  long,  wide,  straggling  street,  with  its  rows  of 
dormer- windowed,  gambrel- roofed  houses,  their  un 
shuttered  panes  to  her  vivid  fancy  watching  like  so 
many  cold,  staring  eyes  this  her  ignominious,  humili 
ating  ride  to  death. 

The  cart  rumbled  past  the  meeting-house,  where 
she  had  worshiped  so  regularly  every  Lord's  Day 
through  the  cold  winters  and  the  hot  summers, 
and  where — here  a  tear  fell  upon  her  cheek, 
rested  there  a  moment,  thence  dropped  into  her  lap 
— she  had  been  married.  Could  it  be  that  it  was 
only  last  spring?  That  beautiful  May- day,  seemed 
years  ago,  so  much  had  she  suffered  since  then. 
Then  they  slowly  passed  the  graveyard  with  its 
aspect  of  quiet  repose,  and  now  the  houses  be 
came  less  frequent,  and  the  farming  lands  began. 
A  spasm  convulsed  her  as  the  Holden  place  came 
in  sight ;  she  noticed  with  loving  tenderness  old 
Rollo  tied  by  the  kitchen  door,  barking  and  tugging 
at  his  chain.  "  Does  he  know  me?"  she  wondered 
vaguely.  "  He  cannot  understand.  Ah,  well  for 
him ;  he  would  be  but  one  more  unhappy  one,  for 
he  loved  me,  kind  old  dog." 


ON    GALLOWS    HILL.  325 

Here  the  procession  halted  a  moment  for  rest. 
Dorothy  turned  partly  around  in  her  seat.  For  an 
instant  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  heart,  ceased  beat 
ing,  and  that  death  had  mercifully  come. 

Riding  upon  a  large,  dark  horse  was  her  husband, 
slowly  following  in  the  rear  of  the  cart.  He  looked 
coldly  and  strangely  upon  her,  as  though  she  were 
unknown  to  him,  an  outcast,  a  stranger.  A  peculiar 
fancy  now  took  possession  of  her  faculties — a  fancy 
that  he  saw  her  not,  that  his  eyes  had  not  the  power 
of  vision,  that  another  creature  looked  forth  from 
those  windows  of  his  soul,  not  Alden.  The 
conviction  now  forced  itself  upon  her  that  an 
other's  will  than  his  own  was  guiding  his  actions  in 
his  hatred  and  unforgiveness  toward  her;  in  fact, 
that  he  himself  was  bewitched,  and  unable  to  do 
otherwise. 

"  Hasten,  my  friends,  hasten,"  called  Cotton 
Mather,  "  we  must  not  delay ;  already  the  day  is 
late,  and  the  road  is  long;  we  must  waste  no  pre 
cious  time." 

The  weary  tramp  commenced  again  toward  Gal 
lows  Hill,  or  Witch  Hill,  as  it  is  sometimes  called. 
The  ascent  of  the  hill  was  slow  and  irksome.  It 
was  a  gloomy  spot,  though  commanding  an  excel- 


326  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

lent  view  of  the  widespreading  though  not  varied 
landscape.  When  the  large  concourse  of  people 
had  reached  the  summit  of  the  hill,  or  rather  the 
spot  midway  previously  designed  for  the  execution, 
a  halt  was  called,  and  the  prisoner  was  lifted  from 
the  cart. 

As  Dorothy  stood  upon  the  eminence  the  people 
halted  slightly  below  her,  the  circle-girls  being  in 
the  foreground,  while  near  her  stood  the  officials 
and  clergy,  and  not  far  distant  the  hangman,  his 
face  averted.  At  some  little  space  to  the  right  of 
the  hangman  stood  Wentworth.  Dorothy  moved 
mechanically  when  they  commanded  her  to  do  so ; 
her  spirit  was  in  another  world,  she  obeyed  them 
silently.  She  turned  toward  the  west  as  they 
directed,  and  remained  passive.  Only  once  her  lips 
moved  slightly ;  it  was  when  she  heard  a  great  cry 
from  Martha  in  the  crowd  below. 

"  Let  me  get  to  her,  let  me  get  to  her !  Ye  are 
all  murderers!  O  Dorothy,  Dorothy,  my  little 
one!" 

Suddenly  a  shadow  fell  across  the  greensward 
near  her — a  long,  dark  shadow.  Her  husband  faced 
her.  Intense  silence  reigned ;  the  murmurs  of  the 
crowd  ceased.  It  was  an  awesome  moment.  Noth- 


ON    GALLOWS    HILL.  327 

ing  was  heard  save  the  rustle  of  the  wind  in  the 
forest  trees,  and  over  the  fields  of  wheat,  moaning 
as  it  advanced  from  the  north. 

The  magistrates  remained  calm,  with  bowed 
heads ;  they  recognized  the  awful  sacredness  of  the 
scene — the  severing  of  the  strongest  bond  on  earth. 
Dorothy  looked  up ;  her  face  shone  as  the  face  of 
some  unearthly  being,  the  glory  of  the  setting  sun 
casting  its  reflection  tenderly  upon  her.  The  purity 
and  sweetness  of  her  beautiful  countenance,  filled 
with  love  and  with  the  resignation  of  a  character 
made  perfect  by  suffering,  appeared  to  irradiate 
that  lonely  hillside  with  a  glimpse  of  the  promised 
splendors  of  the  infinite.  As  she  gazed  upon  her 
husband,  no  reproach,  no  coldness  was  in  her  look ; 
all  was  love,  tenderness,  forgiveness. 

"  Alden,"  she  said  softly,  "  ere  I  go  hence,  say 
that  thou  wilt  forgive  me.  When  I  go  from  thee 
thy  words  cannot  follow  me.  Thou  knowest,  my 
beloved,  that  standing  with  my  feet  upon  the  thresh 
old  of  that  unseen  world,  I  dare  not  speak  a  false 
hood,  when  I  so  soon  shall  enter  the  presence  of 
God."  He  stood  like  one  carved  from  stone,  silent, 
motionless,  unheeding.  "Thou  hearest?"  she  re 
peated.  "  I  ask  not  for  life ;  only  tell  me  that  thou 


328  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

dost  believe  me ;  then  my  body  will  rest  on  earth  in 
peace,  and  my  soul  will  wait  for  thee.  See,  I  would 
kneel  and  clasp  my  hands  to  thee,  were  I  not 
"bound." 

He  swayed  slightly  toward  her,  held  out  his  hands 
like  one  groping  in  the  dark,  then,  throwing  his  arms 
wildly  above  his  head,  a  cry  of  agony  came  from 
his  lips — a  cry  so  loud,  so  deep,  so  strong,  that  it 
resounded  over  the  heads  of  the  people,  and  a  flock 
of  wild  birds  soaring  above  flew  affrighted  toward 
the  sea.  "  Dorothy,  I  believe  thee,  I  believe  thee ! 
What  am  I,  that  I  should  usurp  the  province  of  the 
Almighty  to  withhold  forgiveness?  God  pity  me — 
God  pardon  me " 

She  inclined  her  head,  as  though  listening  atten 
tively,  watching  him  eagerly ;  then,  grasping  his 
meaning,  she  tried  to  reach  him,  but  her  steps  fal 
tered.  She  crept  nearer,  her  lips  moving,  though 
no  sound  came  from  them.  At  length,  summoning 
all  her  strength,  she  whispered :  "  My  husband,  I 
have  now  no  regrets ;  I  am  happy.  Stay  thou  near 
me  till  all  is  over  and  I  go  to  my  rest." 

The  sun  was  sinking  behind  the  hills,  the  land 
scape  lay  in  somber  tints  and  shades  of  the  coming 
night,  the  delicate  after-glow  of  the  pale  fall  sunset 


ON    GALLOWS    HILL.  329 

was  fading  from  the  sky.  Dorothy  gazed  sadly 
upon  the  changing  cloud  pictures,  thence  upon  the 
cold,  hard  faces  of  her  townspeople,  thence  passed 
them  and  looked  out  over  the  hills  and  vales  of  her 
home,  the  distant  town,  the  winding  country  road, 
the  ships,  the  harbor,  and  far  away  the  long  line  of 
sea  and  shores  of  yellow  sand.  Then  turning,  with 
a  smile  of  unutterable  peace,  she  looked  her  last 
upon  Went  worth. 

"  I  am  ready,  Alden,  I  am  ready.  Farewell,  my 
own;  thou  hast  forgiven  me,  I  ask  no  more."  She 
swayed  as  a  reed  sways  in  the  gale,  her  eyes  closed, 
her  face  relaxed  and  became  still  and  white  as  the 
face  of  the  dead.  With  a  little  fluttering  cry  she 
fell  forward  at  his  feet.  Wentworth  rushed  to  her, 
and  lifting  her  from  the  ground  in  his  strong  arms 
held  her  thus  an  instant,  and  faced  the  people. 

"She  is  mine,"  he  cried,  "she  is  mine!  Death 
has  given  her  back  to  me!" 

The  powerful  personality  of  the  man  who  could 
hold  them  spellbound  by  his  fiery  eloquence  in  the 
court  now  asserted  itself.  The  crowd,  but  an  instant 
before  eager  to  cry,  "Hang  her,  she  is  a  witch!" 
now  became  silent  in  the  presence  of  a  sorrow  such 
as  this. 


330  DOROTHY   THE   PURITAN. 

He  endeavored  to  force  his  way  through  the 
throng,  his  helpless  burden  pressed  close  against  his 
heart,  her  head  hanging  across  his  shoulder.  The 
people  huddled  together,  the  hangman  dropped  his 
rope,  and  the  officials  began  eagerly  whispering 
among  themselves.  Wentworth  had  already  accom 
plished  a  little  distance  of  the  descent  of  the  steep 
hillside,  when  Elizabeth  Hubbard  confronted  him, 
holding  her  arms  wide  apart  to  prevent  his  progress. 
Her  face  was  black  with  rage,  and  like  a  wild  beast 
deprived  of  its  prey,  all  reason  and  humanity  had 
departed  from  her. 

"She  is  not  dead!"  she  shrieked.  "She  does 
dissemble,  she  is  not  dead!  Even  now  I  see  the 
demons  laughing  by  her  side !  Release  her,  she  is 
ours,  release  her!" 

Wentworth  turned  fiercely  upon  her.  "  Out  of 
my  way,  thou  wretched  creature,  out  of  my  way! 
Who  art  thou,  that  thou  canst  call  the  dead  to  life  ?  " 

"  If  she  be  dead,  then  her  body  belongs  to  the 
ditch ;  no  witch  can  have  a  Christian  burial — she  is 
excommunicated." 

"  I  tell  thee  depart,  ere  I  curse  thee." 

She  shrank  from  him  in  abject   terror  at   these 


ON    GALLOWS    HILL.  331 

words;  the  pallor  gleamed  through  her  swarthy 
cheeks,  her  face  grew  pinched  and  drawn. 

"  Thou  wilt  curse  me — me,"  she  echoed — "  thou, 
for  whom  I  have  imperiled  my  immortal  soul!" 

Stepping  backward,  she  threw  up  her  arms,  and 
crouching  low  to  the  ground  tried  to  hide  within  the 
shelter  of  the  densely  packed  throng.  The  popu 
lace,  almost  beside  itself  at  the  passionate  intensity 
of  the  scene  just  enacted,  swayed  like  the  restless 
waves  of  the  sea  when  a  storm  passes  over  it. 

Wentworth  hastened  to  the  cart,  which  had  been 
left  below  the  hill  beneath  a  spreading  oak-tree. 
He  laid  his  burden  down  upon  the  floor  of  the  cart, 
and  placing  his  cloak  over  it,  he  stood  erect  and 
defiant. 

"Who  molests  her  now,"  he  cried,  "shall  be 
responsible  to  me.  She  is  mine ;  ye  have  done 
your  worst." 

The  doctor  now  drew  near,  and  bending  over  the 
quiet  form  touched  the  face  and  hands,  listening  at 
the  heart.  Wentworth  watched  him  intently.  The 
doctor  lifted  his  head  and  gazed  steadfastly  into 
Wentworth's  face.  Their  glances  met,  they  under 
stood  each  other.  Then  the  doctor  turned  to  the 


332  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

people.  "  She  is  at  rest — ye  need  fear  her  no  more. 
Give  her  into  her  husband's  charge." 

At  this  announcement  murmurs  arose  among 
the  spectators — murmurs  of  disapproval  and  dissent. 
Some  turned  impetuously  in  the  direction  of  the 
wagon.  At  this  juncture  a  woman  in  the  crowd 
called  loudly : 

"  See,  a  horseman !  He  rides  at  great  speed 
along  the  highway  from  the  town." 

All  heads  were  turned  in  the  direction  of  the 
advancing  figure  on  horseback,  who  came  onward, 
rushing  headlong  through  a  cloud  of  whirling  dust, 
urging  his  steed  to  the  utmost.  As  he  neared  the 
hill  he  cried  breathlessly :  "  The  governor's  ships 
are  in  the  harbor;  he  has  returned  from  the  Indian 
wars.  He  is  wroth,  they  say,  at  these  proceedings 
in  Salem.  Return  in  all  haste  to  the  town  to  wel 
come  him." 

The  people  gazed  awestruck  at  each  other  on 
receiving  these  tidings.  They  darted  hither  and 
thither,  filled  with  excitement  and  indecision,  and 
after  much  delay  proceeded  reluctantly  to  form  in 
straggling  disorder,  preparatory  to  returning  along 
the  road  to  the  town.  The  officials  also  appeared 
troubled  and  crestfallen.  As  for  Cotton  Mather,  he 


ON    GALLOWS    HILL.  333 

was  exceedingly  angry.  Nevertheless,  they  all  con 
sidered  it  the  better  policy  to  welcome  the  governor 
properly,  and  departed  slowly  in  the  wake  of  the 
procession,  Cotton  in  the  meanwhile  delivering  him 
self  of  much  pious  grumbling. 

Martha  had  closely  followed  Wentworth  when  he 
placed  Dorothy  in  the  cart.  She  now  stood  near 
him,  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  watched  the  dis 
persing  of  the  multitude. 

"  We  will  not  take  her  to  the  new  house,"  whis 
pered  Wentworth,  "  she  was  not  happy  there ;  but 
to  the  old  farm,  where  I  first  met  her,  a  little  child." 

Martha  wept  softly  as  she  looked  upon  the  silent 
form.  "Ay,"  she  said,  "  we  will  take  her  home." 

And  so  through  the  misty  gloaming  of  that  cool 
September  evening  Dorothy  was  taken  back  to  the 
scene  of  that  simple  life  of  her  childhood.  Went 
worth  and  Martha  walked  slowly  by  the  side  of  the 
vehicle  with  bowed  heads. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

< 

"  IN    A    FAR    COUNTRY." 

WHEN  Dorothy  was  lifted  from  the  cart  in  her 
husband's  arms  and  placed  upon  the  bed  in  her 
quaint  little  dormer-windowed  room  that  faced  the 
west  and  the  sea,  she  was  apparently  dead ;  and  so 
the  watchers  thought,  as  they  leaned  above  her  and 
saw  no  signs  of  life.  The  doctor  said  otherwise. 
"  It  is  suspended  animation ;  she  may  speak  again 
and  know  ye.  Yet  be  most  cautious;  she  stands 
upon  the  borderland  of  that  spirit  world."  He 
turned  to  Wentworth.  "  Perchance  thy  voice  may 
have  the  power  to  call  her  back  to  life.  Watch 
carefully,  watch." 

When  the  night  had  advanced  and  the  stars  were 
shining  brightly  in  the  heavens,  Dorothy  opened  her 
eyes,  to  behold  her  husband.  He  placed  his  arms 
about  her.  She  looked  up  with  the  sweet,  gentle 
smile  he  had  seen  so  often.  "Have  I  died?"  she 
whispered.  "  Is  this  another  world  ?  Art  thou  with 
me?  " 

334 


"  IN   A    FAR    COUNTRY."  335 

"  Thou  hast  died  to  sorrow,  Dorothy,  but  thou 
livest  in  thy  husband's  love  for  evermore,  if  such  a 
sinner  as  I  deserve  such  love  as  thine."  . 

She  did  not  reply ;  she  closed  her  eyes  and  lay 
very  still.  He  kissed  her.  The  light  of  the  stars 
shone  through  the  small-paned  windows,  and  a 
peace  unutterable  entered  into  the  souls  of  those 
present. 

That  fearful  scene  on  Gallows  Hill  was  the  last 
act  of  that  terrible  religious  tragedy  which  disgraced 
the  early  days  of  our  ancestors  in  New  England. 
In  October  following  the  entire  community  became 
convinced  of  their  fatal  error.  The  light  began  to 
dawn,  and  the  power  of  the  magic  circle  visible  in 
that  light  of  calm  reason  dwindled  and  grew  pale. 
"  They  have  perjured  themselves,"  cried  many.  The 
dark  horror  came  to  an  end,  the  storm  settled  into  a 
great  calm,  with  the  wrecks  of  homes  and  hopes  and 
hearts  strewing  the  shore  line.  The  prisons  of  Ips 
wich,  Boston,  Salem,  and  Cambridge  opened  their 
doors,  and  the  poor  dazed  creatures  came  forth. 
The  number  of  those  unfortunate  ones  imprisoned 
for  witchcraft  is  not  definitely  known,  but  it  is  esti 
mated  that  some  hundreds  suffered  this  ignominy. 

Great  was  the   remorse   experienced  among  the 


336  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

now  awakened  citizens.  They  bowed  themselves 
humbly  to  the  earth,  beseeching  forgiveness  for  their 
grievous  fault.  The  governor,  Sir  William  Phipps, 
commanded  that  no  more  cases  of  witcficraft  should 
be  tried,  and  no  more  spectral  testimony  be  taken 
in  evidence. 

In  one  of  the  most  remote  settlements  of  the 
New  World,  some  eight  years  after  the  events  re 
lated  in  this  story,  a  man  and  woman  might  often 
be  seen  toward  evening,  when  the  day's  work  was 
done,  leaning  upon  a  low  wooden  paling  surrounding 
a  simple  cottage.  The  man  was  Wentworth,  the 
sweet-faced  woman  by  his  side,  his  wife  Dorothy. 
He  had  renounced  the  brilliant  career  that  lay  be 
fore  him,  and  hand  in  hand  with  her  he  loved  had 
made  a  new  home  in  a  new  country  far  removed 
from  the  sad  scene  of  his  great  sorrow. 

"  I  am  not  worthy,  I  am  not  worthy,"  he  had 
maintained,  "  to  point  to  others  the  way ;  no  longer 
can  I  lead,  yet  I  can  follow  in  all  humility.  I  did 
transgress  upon  the  province  of  God." 

Though  Dorothy  had  endeavored  to  persuade 
him  from  this  course,  he  was  determined.  In  bitter 
ness  of  spirit  he  said,  "  It  was  not  as  though  I  be 
lieved  thee  guilty  of  witchcraft ;  I  had  not  even  that 


"IN   A    FAR    COUNTRY."  337 

to  sanction  my  great  sin.  No,  I  knew  that  thou 
wert  innocent ;  it  was  for  mine  own  wrongs  I  sought 
revenge.  In  the  wickedness  of  my  heart  I  have 
been  a  murderer.  I  step  down  from  my  high  place, 
a  penitent  sinner." 

"  Yet  thou  art  eloquent,  Alden ;  a  great  future  is 
before  thee." 

"  I  renounce  it ;  my  great  fault  has  been  mine 
ambition.  I  take  this  as  my  merited  punishment." 

So  he  became  a  teacher  to  the  Indians,  instructing 
them  in  reading  and  writing  and  in  all  the  practi 
cal  arts  that  were  known  in  those  days.  Though 
directed  by  no  law  of  churchly  sanction,  his  influ 
ence  for  good  was  sufficiently  widespreading  to  be  a 
beacon-light  to  those  holy  men  who  in  later  years 
worked  for  the  advancement  of  the  Indians. 

Wentworth  was  truly  a  missionary  in  his  kindly, 
noble  life,  a  father,  a  helper,  and  a  friend  to  those 
degraded  savages. 

It  is  the  22d  of  September.  The  afternoon  is 
warm ;  a  soft  fall  haze  is  in  the  atmosphere.  Doro 
thy  is  standing  in  the  porch  of  the  tiny  cottage, 
looking  dreamily  over  the  little  settlement,  thence 
toward  the  vast  unexplored  forests  of  the  north. 
She  is  presently  joined  by  Wentworth,  leading  a 


338  DOROTHY    THE    PURITAN. 

little  girl  by  the  hand.  The  child  is  crying  bitterly ; 
her  apron  is  held  to  her  eyes,  and  her  hands  are 
covered  with  fruit  stains.  Alden  looks  down  re 
provingly  upon  her;  she  is  trying  to  hide  her  face 
with  the  little  chubby  hand  that  grasps  the  apron, 
and  is  endeavoring  to  hold  back  and  hide  behind 
her  father. 

"What  has  Dot  been  doing?"  asks  Dorothy 
anxiously. 

Wentworth  lifts  his  little  girl  in  his  arms,  and  she 
presses  her  pretty  face  against  his  shoulder.  "  What 
hast  thou  done,  my  child?"  he  says.  "Confess  to 
thy  mother." 

"  I — I — took  the  fruit — "  she  pauses  and  sobs — 
"  that — that — thou  didst  tell  me  I  could  not  have." 
She  hefsitates  and  stops  abruptly. 

"  What  else,  what  else?  "  urges  her  father. 

"  I  told  father  I  did  not  take  it,  and  I  held  my 
hands  behind  my  back  so  that  he  could  not  see 
the  stains.  He  took  my  hands  and  saw  that — I — 
I- 

Dorothy  snatches  the  child  from  its  father's  arms, 
a  look  of  terror  upon  her  face ;  she  clasps  her  closely 
against  her  breast,  and  bows  her  head  above  the 
little  curly  one  that  rests  so  near  her  heart. 


"IN   A    FAR    COUNTRY."  339 

"  Dot,  O  Dot,"  she  says,  the  tears  in  her  eyes, 
"  thou  hast  told  a  falsehood,  thou  hast  told  a  false 
hood,  my  child;  that  is  a  great  sin." 

Alden  places  his  hand  tenderly  upon  Dorothy's 
hair,  saying  gently,  "  She  was  sorry  and  did  con 
fess.  ' ' 

"And  thou,  what  didst  thou  say  to  her?  " 

He  bowed  his  head  humbly.  "  I  forgave  her. 
Could  I  do  otherwise  ?  " 

"  Poor  little  Dot,"  says  Dorothy,  "  poor  little 
Dot!  Thine  earthly  heritage  is  early  apparent." 

Together  the  three  remained  looking  over  the 
lovely  rural  scene  that  lay  before  them,  the  child 
asleep  upon  its  mother's  lap,  the  marks  of  her  recent 
grief  upon  her  face ;  now  and  then  she  sobbed  in 
her  sleep,  as  though  into  her  dreams  she  had  carried 
her  troubles.  Wentworth  held  Dorothy's  hand,  and 
they  watched  the  changing  clouds  above  them  drift 
ing  toward  the  setting  sun. 

"  We  are  far  away  from  home,"  said  Dorothy 
presently.  "  I  ofttimes  wonder  what  Aunt  Martha 
is  doing  at  the  farm ;  yet  I  long  not  for  Salem,  I  am 
happy.". 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  we  are  happy,  and  we  are  not 
far  from  home,  though  on  the  borders  of  the  great 


340  DOROTHY   THE    PURITAN. 

wilderness ;  we  do  but  bide  here  awhile,  till  we 
hasten  to  our  rest  in  a  '  far  country/  where  our  true 
home  shall  be." 

The  birds  began  to  prepare  for  the  night,  the  wild 
wood  warblers  calling  loud  and  shrill  as  they  flew 
overhead ;  the  fall  insects  piped  in  discordant  notes. 
The  dews  began  to  fall,  and  Dorothy  covered  the 
sleeping  child  with  her  shawl. 

"  Dear  little  penitent!"  she  whispered,  and  kissed 
her. 

The  sun  went  down  upon  the  quiet  and  pleasant 
scene.  If  it  could  have  imparted  to  the  watching 
couple  the  numerous  things  it  had  witnessed  in  its 
rounds,  it  would  have  told  of  many  interesting  events 
relating  to  the  personages  of  this  story. 

In  a  foreign  town  it  had  viewed  not  long  since 
Sir  Grenville  Lawson  slain  in  a  duel ;  and  when  they 
raised  him,  so  that  he  might  breath  more  easily,  the 
life-blood  had  gushed  from  his  mouth ;  he  essayed 
to  speak,  and  his  attendants,  bending  over  him  to 
catch  the  faltering  words,  heard  him  whisper,  "  Dor 
othy,  forgive!" 

"  His  mind  wanders,"  they  said ;  "  we  know  of  no 
such  person." 

The  day-king  had  then  crossed  the  seas  and 
looked  in  at  the  narrow  panes  of  the  Holden  farm- 


"IN    A    FAR    COUNTRY."  341 

house  kitchen,  and  had  shone  upon  Martha,  hale, 
buxom,  as  of  yore,  but  alone.  Crossing  the  hill,  it 
rested  tenderly  upon  two  graves,  not  far  apart,  in  the 
little  Puritan  "  God's-acre."  On  one  simple  head 
stone  is  carved  Goody  Tnteman,  on  the  other  David 
Ho  I  den. 

The  destiny  of  the  girls  of  the  accusing  circle,  with 
but  few  exceptions,  was  shrouded  in  mystery  ;  statis 
tics  state  little  of  their  subsequent  career ;  it  is  very 
possible  that  they  retired  into  their  quiet  lives  and 
oblivion.  I  doubt  if  we  could  mete  to  them  a 
greater  punishment  than  that  engendered  by  an 
awakened  conscience,  with  its  pangs  of  bitter  re 
morse. 

It  was  quite  dark  now ;  the  night  had  come.  "  It 
is  the  anniversary,  Alden,"  says  Dorothy  softly, 
after  some  moments  of  silence,  "  the  anniversary  of 
the  day  that  I  was  given  back  to  thee — the  22d  of 
September." 

"  Ay,  dearest,"  he  replies,  "  I  remember;  the  day 
God  opened  mine  eyes,  and  I  became,  by  acknowl 
edging  myself  the  greater  sinner,  in  part  worthy  of 
thee,  my  beloved." 

"  We  are  happy  and  united,  my  husband,"  she 
says  softly,  "  the  past  is  forgotten." 


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